


Secondhand Sparks

by glitterswitch



Series: Sparks and Hearts [2]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Holoform(s), Identity Issues, Memory Loss, Multiple Personalities, Road Trips, Self-Discovery, lol mickey has no idea, more than meets the eye
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterswitch/pseuds/glitterswitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So far there has been no response to Optimus' transmission, and the Decepticons are closing in. With few options left, Mikaela and Ratchet patch up and reformat an old enemy, only to discover that he isn't all he seems. Some secrets are better left in the dark, and Mikaela may end up paying the ultimate price for uncovering them.</p><p>This will eventually cross over into the Marvel Cinematic Universe, as well as some of the X-Men. I will update tags as the story progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Start a Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Bayverse with G1, Armada influences. This is set just after the first movie, and is an AU. ROTF will be incorporated into it later on, but with some obvious differences. Also will be crossing over into the MCU and X-Men later down the line. I will update all the tags accordingly when we reach those points.
> 
> Any and all feedback is welcome. Concrit is especially appreciated, regarding characterization, technical glitches, grammar, etc. 
> 
> Lyrics © Audio Adrenaline.

_It only takes a spark to get a fire going._

It was three o'clock in the morning when the signal was picked up by Ratchet's comm. They'd been driving for a while, her and him, wending their way down the country roads that marked the outskirts of Mission City. The metropolis at night was quiet, almost too much so, but the occasional 911 call or gunshots still came across his radio, broadcasting so that Mikaela could hear everything he did.

Optimus had 'insisted' (his own pleasant way of saying 'do this or your aft is slag,' in Mikaela's opinion) on helping with the cleanup of the city. There hadn't been too much back-talk; down to the last mech, they all felt responsible for the destruction of the unsuspecting town that had become their battleground. But Ratchet had worried that they would be recognized. Mikaela wasn't so sure about that - not much of their alt modes had been in view during the battle royale; most of it had been spent in their natural 'bot forms, and _that_ was something they were going to be sure to keep under wraps.

The government, bless them, had done a nice, neat cover-up of the whole episode, and now everyone thought they were Japanese (or Swedish, or German, or Canadian, depending on who you talked to) Gundam prototypes, created by their enemies overseas. Of course, the original news feed had stated in no uncertain terms that it was just a military experiment gone awry, there were _no_ terrorist plots to overthrow their government via mind-controlling robots, these were not the droids you were looking for, etc, etc. And, as was the norm, people came up their own interpretations and filled the Internet with them until the original story was a pleasant memory.

Business as usual for the humans.

Briefly, Mikaela wondered when she'd gotten so cynical. Then she took another look at her surroundings, in the back of a EMV Humvee that was actually a grumpy alien robot medic, and remembered. _Oh, yeah._ Spending as much time as she did with Ratchet, it was a miracle she had any idealism left in her.

But it wasn't in her nature to be so sardonic. Sure, she was a down-to-earth gal (and didn't _that_ little phrase take on a whole new meaning); she worked with machines and technology. It was a part of who she was to be sensible, the voice of reason. But the Autobots had given her a little taste of what life was like on the other side - to believe in something else, something bigger than yourself and what you could hold in your own two hands.

That was something else she wondered about, when she let herself. Did the Cybertronians believe in a God? They'd mentioned a Primus in her presence several times, and something about the Matrix (something she was almost _afraid_ to even think about), but what were -

And suddenly, right there in the middle of her theologically ground-breaking thoughts, was a sharp, keening sound. It brought her up to the front of the Hummer immediately, all thoughts of God and Primus out the figurative window as she tilted her head to listen.

Almost as suddenly as it had come, it was gone again, lost to soft static. With an irritated grunt, she touched a control on Ratchet's console. "You get that, Ratch?"

"I did, Mikaela. But I seemed to have gone out of range. I shall attempt to remedy that." And he did, by throwing himself in reverse without any warning whatsoever and causing the girl to sprawl ungracefully across his dashboard. She pushed herself up with a huff, and gave the medic a dirty look (which consisted of glaring at the steering wheel), even as she strapped herself into the passenger's seat.

"A little warning wouldn't have gone amiss, you know."

"You are undamaged, Mikaela. And there is no need to express your frustration with me; I can smell it all over the cab."

And with that unnerving remark, he continued driving backwards down the little road they had been traveling (they would be in the city proper, but for all that Ratchet was a genius, he could _not_ remember to keep his hologram driver stable.) After only a few seconds of this, maybe ten, the signal was picked back up. The medic promptly threw himself into park, barely giving himself enough time to come to a complete stop, and Mikaela was once again a victim of inertia, this time smacking the back of her skull on the headrest. _At least the damned thing's padded_ , she thought sourly to herself.

"Ratchet, I keep _asking_ you to let me drive every once in a while - "

"Quiet, youngling. Listen."

Her mouth thinning in annoyance, she obeyed.

She quickly realized that this wasn't normal. Whatever it was, whatever it was coming from...she'd never heard anything like it. "Ratchet, do you have any idea what this is?"

No reply.

"...Ratch?"

Still nothing, save the snarling, hacking signal that rent the air around her.

She touched the console, worried now. There was a sinking feeling in her gut, and she didn't like it one bit.

And suddenly there were words.

"...Inj...pl-s...pond... _kzssshhh_... _KZSHH_...Ba-ade...nyone, please _reKRRZZSHHHH_ \- "

Mikaela jerked away from the dashboard with a yelp. "The _HELL_. Ratchet, what _is_ this?"

He finally answered over the static. "I believe it is a Cybertronian distress signal, youngling. Of Autobot or Decepticon origin, I am not certain."

She let out a hiss. "You're serious. Here? I thought that Optimus had all channels open, that he could pick up any Cybertronian signals coming into the atmosphere."

"He does, and he can. This...is something else altogether." There was an odd note in Rachet's voice that lent credence to the knot in Mikaela's stomach. "No one has landed here. I believe...they may have been here for some time. Since the Battle of Mission City."

Mikaela sputtered, running a hand through tangled hair. "Since - wait, is that _supposed_ to make sense?"

"I believe, " and the certainty in his voice became stronger, "that we may be hearing the distress signal of one of the Decepticons that Optimus fought with on his way to the city. Why we haven't heard it before now, I cannot say. Regardless...we must investigate."

Her heart had stopped at 'Decepticon,' and now it kick-started back up with a vengeance, hammering double-time in her chest. "You're serious," she repeated, pressing herself back into her seat unconsciously. _Decepticons._ Jesus.

"Indeed I am, Mikaela. What we just heard could have come from an online Decepticon, one still functional enough to do serious damage to the Autobots and all we have worked for." He paused for a moment, then, realizing her fear, attempted to allay it. "Do not worry, I have already informed Optimus on a secure channel. We will have back-up in twenty-two minutes. All we must do is sim - "

And then the speakers _roared_ , overriding Ratchet's voice completely as the signal burst through. " _If you are within range, I am injured. Decepticon, Autobot, ASSIST ME."_ Then a steady stream of what Mikaela instantly recognized as the Cybertronian language; coordinates, perhaps.

Like before, it died as quickly as it came. Mikaela slowly let her hands fall away from her head, where she had attempted to buffer the deafening sound. Her chest was tight with dread, and something else...almost like anticipation, but _worse_. She swallowed the bile that suddenly rose in her throat, but it still stung when she finally spoke.

"Ratchet...I know this is going to sound insane, but _I think I recognized that voice_."

 

 

 

* * *

She should have known sneaking out of her grandmother's house to go joyriding with a giant alien robot was going to have consequences. But only if she got caught, or so she thought at the time.

Now it didn't seem to matter.

Mikaela thought she'd died and gone to her own special Happy Place when Ratchet had agreed to take her on as an apprentice. Sam had suggested it, Optimus had backed him, and Bee had nodded enthusiastically throughout the whole thing. It was with much grumbling and slamming of instruments into walls that he had, rather reluctantly, conceded their point - If they were going to live among the humans, to trust them, work with them, there would have to be some sort of cultural exchange. Mikaela was already, in her own opinion (and Sam's, and Bee's), a kick-ass mechanic. But to train to become an Autobot medic? An alien robot doctor? She'd literally gone weak in the knees at the thought. It was simply practical, they said. And Bee...he wouldn't have anyone else work on him. He wanted to be her 'first,' as he'd coyly put it in song (the imp! He'd known exactly what he was doing), and she had wanted so badly to help him walk again.

So Ratchet put her to work, and as a result, she hounded him day and night, sometimes calling in the wee hours of the morning with a question that kept picking at her brain until she couldn't sleep. He regretted ever remodeling that cell phone with Cybertronian technology, he bemoaned again and again to her. It helped her communicate with him and the rest of the Autobots over distances, translating their comm. speak into text on her screen, and in return, she could call them up and talk to them over the same system, or just text them back. Talking to aliens over the phone. How intense could you _get_?

But throw her grandmother and Sam's parent's into the mix...chaos. Absolute, utter fragging entropy. The 'rents had _freaked_ , and grounded him for the next month, and Gramma Jodi...Mikaela was still worried that the old lady was going to have a spark - _heart_ \- attack every time the phone rang. When she had tried to subtly mention this to her Gramma, the woman had looked at her like she'd just suggested cannibalism, or Democrats. She was a Banes, and Banes' didn't _get_ heart attacks. They were salt of the earth Southerners, good, solid stock, and made of sterner stuff than todays grandma's, all soft fluffy hair and store-bought cookies. (Her Gramma's cookies were made from nothing but scratch.) But still...giant alien robots. The woman had to have a breaking point somewhere.

Thus, the sneaking. The 'bots disapproved, especially Optimus, who had an honorable streak a few miles wide, and they all wished there were a less deceptive way to get around things. But things were what they were, and you did what you had to do. So Ironhide said (he was the least upset by the goings-on, unsurprisingly).

Not to mention the fragging _military_. The politics and procedures involved in that headache...well, gave her an even worse headache. Of Megatron-sized proportions. She and Sam thankfully didn't have to deal too much with them, save the Captain, who really wasn't that bad. They'd even met his family a couple of times, and _God_ was his kid cute. But.

There was always a but, she thought ruefully.

Right here, right now...not much fun was being had, by anyone, by any means. If the government caught wind of this - and it was only a matter of time before they did; the squad of Marines, tentatively named N.E.S.T., assigned to assist (spy on) the Autobots _had_ to report this at some point - then the fecal matter was going to hit the rotary device. And she was going to be right in the middle of it, Primus help her.

(She was already beginning to sound like them; wasn't that something?)

She watched Ironhide unload the poor fragger onto what passed for an examination table in Ratchet's 'lab' - just a sectioned-off space that housed his various medical equipment of DOOM - and couldn't help but wince at the resulting noise. 'Hide wasn't being gentle, to be sure, and she didn't really blame him.

This was _Barricade_ , after all. Or what was left of him, after Optimus handed his aft to him all of two months ago.

Had it really only been two months? It felt like longer. Then again, everything she did (after meeting the Autobots and nearly becoming scrap in a life-or-death battle of epic proportions) had a vague, almost dream-like quality. Yet at the same time, she had never felt so _focused_. Like everything had a new, refined edge to it, and she had to step lively, or she'd get cut to ribbons.

She had the feeling that she'd never really lived, until now.

...Which meant she'd better savor every damned moment, because once the military found out they had a Decepticon - incapacitated or not - in their facilities, she had a foreboding feeling that she was somehow going to be roped into the middle of it. And then she might be detained for questions, which could lead to accusations, which led to charges, which led to -

\- An absolutely ridiculous, histrionic line of thinking. She was overreacting. Letting her _hormone_ s take over, as Ratchet would no doubt say.

She blew out a frustrated, shaky breath, and turned her attention back to the wreckage that lay in front of her.

He looked...like scrap. Like something you wouldn't even find at a junkyard. She really didn't want to think about what Optimus could have done that resulted in this...carnage. He must have been _pissed_ to do something like this, even if it was to the enemy.

She thought she had a handle on the guy, sort of. And from what she knew of the Autobot leader...this looked almost like he'd been _tortured_. Torn apart limb from limb, literally, and left to rust, spark still intact, but completely immobilized.

And Optimus wouldn't do that to someone...not his own kind. Surely.

She bit her lip, and tasted blood.

 _And maybe I'm so far off the mark I'm in another galaxy,_ she thought with a sinking heart.

 

 

 

* * *

"You want to _WHAT?!"_

Yeah...yeah, she thought Ratchet might respond like that.

"I want to bring him back online. If he knows something, maybe we can get him to talk. Use his...disability, as it were...to our advantage."

"Absolutely not. We - you - _are not repairing him_. I forbid it. We can get whatever answers we need from his central processors - I simply need to create and upload a program to his mainframe that will draw them out. He doesn't need to be _awake_ for that."

He said it with such vehemence, such _loathing,_ that Mikaela actually started to back up, before catching herself. She drew in a breath to calm herself, and reminded herself that she had expected something like this. But she was Mikaela Banes, and resistance was _futile_ , dammit. She had her argument all planned out, emotional blackmail and everything, and she was _not_ about to give up before she even got to the good part.

"Okay. Okay. Look, Ratchet. I have actually _thought_ about this, you know. It's not like I walked in here ten seconds ago and said to myself, 'Gee, Mickey, why don't we wake up the big bad Decepticon and see what he does! Hey, the worst he can do is _roll over_ on us.' "

Her sarcasm was not appreciated, she noted, as Ratchet drove a spanner into the wall beside him. "Slag it, Mikaela, don't you think I know that? You're an intelligent creature, which leads me to beg the question, _'why, for the love of Primus, WHY_?' I simply see no logic in this. It is an unacceptable venture, and I will have no part in it."

She waited a beat, then dropped her little bombshell. "Optimus agrees with me."

Silence.

Then, "This is a joke. This is one of your little human jokes, and you're going to wait a few more astroseconds for me to wind myself up some more before pointing and laughing hysterically at me. Aren't you."

Mikaela made a small, apologetic noise in her throat. "No, Ratch, I'm afraid I'm really, deathly serious about this."

"...you do realize I might have to step on you."

"I wouldn't blame you in the slightest."

"Good. You'd best start running, then."

She obeyed, with all haste.

 

 

 

* * *

Eventually Ratchet caved, like he always did with her. After the initial blind, all-consuming rage had worn off, he and the others, especially Optimus, had talked at great length. Though talking may have been an exaggeration; shouting, hollering, roaring...take your pick. And throwing things. There was a lot of that.

So it was with a little trepidation that she watched Optimus and Ratchet approach her three days later, in the charging bay. She'd been tinkering with a random servo joint of Barricade's, idly picking at a severed neuron cable, when she felt their shadows fall across her. She swallowed, and immediately set the piece off to the side, hoping they wouldn't have noticed. They did, but neither mentioned it, save for a raising of optic ridges from Optimus and a wordless scowl from Ratchet.

"Before we partake of this endeavor (oh, Primus, he was being formal; that could either bode well or very, nauseatingly ill), we must speak to you on the subject of Barricade himself, and just who he is."

That sounded...intriguing. She nodded, and fell in step beside them, only subconsciously noting how slowly they moved, so that she might keep up with them.

Optimus continued speaking. "Once I realized that there was logic to your argument, I knew that it would only be a matter of time before I would have to tell you what you are about to hear.

This is classified, youngling, make note of it. The government of your United States does not have any need for this information, as it does not pertain to anything concerning them. It is a matter that deals specifically with my own command, and the ranks within. And it is...a sore subject, for all of us. Especially after losing Jazz."

Mikaela took a moment to glance down in remembrance of the fallen Autobot warrior. They had been unable to repair him, as several of the parts needed had been irreparably damaged, and there were no suitable replacements that Ratchet could, or was willing, to use. They had spoken of something called The Ark, mentioning that the crew aboard her (a ship, she had reasoned) would have the necessary pieces to put him back together; but they had not heard from them in _years..._ almost a millennium, if she did the math right. The Autobots stationed here on Earth had no idea of her current location, and there was no feasible way to hail her. Mikaela reckoned, from what she had gleaned from different conversations between the mechs, that Earth was a bit like the galaxy's version of the sticks - out in the middle of fragging nowhere. That was...rather depressing. But it also made it that much more fascinating as to _how_ the Autobots, not to mention Megatron, had found it in the first place, All Spark or no...

Anyway. She looked back up, watching Optimus' face the best she could from her (disad)vantage point so far below him. He must have sensed this, because both he and Ratchet paused, then without any further warning shifted into their alt modes. She had never gotten tired of seeing it, and watched in awe as the last cogs and servos disappeared into the seemingly innocuous bodies of a Semi and a Humvee. After a moment, Optimus' driver-side door swung open, inviting her in. She obliged him, grunting a little with the effort took to climb up into the cab. She was far from out of shape, but _damn_. Truck drivers must have absolutely _wicked_ quads.

They made their way off base, and ventured a ways into the countryside. All was silent, save for the rumble and growl of the engine. She wondered what was so important that they wouldn't want to speak in front of the others, including Ironhide. Bee and Sam were at his house, working on college transcripts (college! Already! They weren't even seniors yet, but the Witwickys were adamant that Sam be the first in their family to get into a college - _any_ college.). The military personnel present for the moment only consisted of the Master Sergeant and a handful of underlings; Captain Lennox - Will, he'd insisted they call him, you don't save the world with someone and keep calling them by their last name - was currently at home with his little family in Southern California, taking some much needed time with his young daughter, not even a year old yet.

But still. She knew where they were headed, so she didn't complain.

Soon enough they were at the Lookout, and Mikaela hopped out of the cab right before they shifted again. From behind her came the whine of gears pulling and shifting, and that strange electronic noise that told her they were powering up. She didn't look back; instead, she found a comfortable spot against the trunk of the small, drooping tree that sat at the cliff's edge.

Optimus took a minute to gaze out over the valley, and she wondered, yet again, what he was thinking. You think you know a guy, and then you see his limbless, rusty-pulp carcass of an enemy. Despite the warmth of summer all around her, she shivered.

They took stations on either side of her, settling down till they were a little more at her eye-level. It did a little to alleviate what would have been a serious crick in the neck, but it was mostly the gesture itself that counted. It was a sign of equality, of respect, that they would bring themselves down to her level, and for that she was grateful.

Then Prime began to speak once more, and the chill that had come and gone in an instant revisited her.

"Barricade was not always as you know him - he was not sparked into being as a Decepticon. Once, he was one of my most able, most trusted advisors.

A highly competent military strategist; between Jazz and he, there was no battle they could not maneuver to their favor. Not only were they both my highest-ranking officers, they were spark brothers as well, together in everything.

His designation was Prowl."


	2. Every Little Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because the devil is in the details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consider this to be limited third person...which means Mickey doesn't know absolutely everything. Quote is Bob Marley's.

_Don't worry about a thing - every little thing is gonna be alright._

So. A traitor.

The word left behind a sour taste, even in her thoughts. Traitor. Turncoat. Back-stabber. _Judas_.

They'd told her all about Starscream. His repeated attempts to usurp Megatron were somewhat legendary, and from what she had gathered, sounded like the quintessential Decepticon - conniving, power-hungry, and hell-bent on destruction. Built-to-order evil; no ifs, ands or buts.

But after what she'd just learned -

There was a whole new level to the game, now. An undercurrent of sinister purpose lay behind those red optics, and it wasn't because they'd been programmed that way.

They _chose_ it.

The word – traitor – implied a decision made, a turn of conscience. These weren't just machines anymore, albeit ones with their own quirky personalities and strengths and weaknesses.

Not that she'd ever _really_ thought of them as simply machines – you'd have to be deaf, dumb and freakin' blind to think that. But...Ratchet had once told her just a little about their origins, enough for her to assume that the Autobots had indeed been built for something other than war. And the Decepticons – like she said, built-to-order evil. Weapons from their sparking. Destruction was their main objective, programmed into their central [processing](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5696699/2/Secondhand-Sparks) units.

But for an Autobot to actually change sides, change his mind, change his _primary function of being_ , to that of a Deception?

And just when she'd thought she had it all figured out, too – something like _this_ comes along to bite you on the ass.

She stared blankly down at the spiral notebook in front of her, running her pencil absently up and down the metal rings. Half-sketched doodles of what could have been the anatomy diagram of a robot covered the page, complete with illegible handwriting to label the different pieces. It was mid-afternoon on a Friday, and she had barricaded – ah, bad word choice there – herself in the garage, sprawling out across the length of the threadbare couch in one corner.

It was one thing to have the blueprints already handy, and have the pieces all out in front of you, jumbled together in one crazy mess. Coming up with your very own Autonomous Robotic Organism was like...rubbing your stomach while patting your head while eating sushi with chopsticks while riding a horse bareback and blindfolded...you get the idea.

She stared for another minute, and when the drawings and words starting all bleeding together, she flopped down face-first onto the paper, moaning.

There had to be some way she could make sense of this chaos.

With a shuffling of papers, she twisted around until she was on her back, letting one leg dangle off the edge of the couch. She stared blankly up into the dark rafters, idly drumming her fingers on her stomach.

They had assumed she would have him rebuilt according to his original format, but she had other plans. What they would think of her idea she hadn't a clue, but she was hoping it wouldn't be met with disapproval and raised voices. If she could get the idea past Optimus, then she was practically in the clear – if their Prime approved, Ratchet could hardly refuse. He could, however, throw a few wrenches in her plans – and she meant that in the most literal sense. Mikaela didn't _want_ to have to use Optimus as leverage; she liked and respected the sardonic medic, and prayed that she wouldn't have to resort to blackmail to gain his cooperation.

She swung her leg idly, but the rhythmic _whump-whump_ of it hitting the couch irritated her. Exhaling noisily, she hoisted her feet up over the arm of the couch, and inspected the tips of her worn sneakers from where she lay. She needed new ones, she thought idly, wiggling her toes inside the fraying footwear. They were faded red Chuck Taylors, more pink now than anything. She didn't wear them out anymore; they were strictly for working in the garage. Mud, grease and tar covered a good portion of them, and the soles were almost nonexistent. They were getting a little too snug up front, and her toes occasionally cramped, but they were one of the last things her dad ever gotten her _legitimately,_ and they were special.

She clicked the heels together, three times in a row, and smiled to herself. Lifting her eyes back to the ceiling, she blinked back the sudden prickling sensation that threatened to turn into tears. This wouldn't do, she decided, and pulled herself up into a sitting position, feet still resting on the arm of the couch. She leaned towards them, wrapping her fingers around the soles and tugging, stretching out her back. She stayed that way for a minute, letting her body sag against her legs, and took a deep, bracing breath. When she looked back up, intending to stand and take her work back up to her room, something caught her eye just beyond her toes.

The bright blue of the tarp stood out against the dark stone walls of the garage like a banner, and she ran her eyes across the shape she knew was hidden beneath its folds. It was her father's pride and joy, a customized Ducati Monster from '96, and she wasn't allowed to even _think_ of it until he was released (so said Gramma Jodi). It may not have been the most popular bike in the world, nor the fastest, but her dad loved it like a second child. He'd promised her a ride as the first thing they'd do together when he got out, and she could hardly stand the wait.

The Monster was an old childhood memory, one of a few not tainted by her mom or her dad's so-called _business_. He'd bought it legit from the dealership, brand new off the floor, a few months after her mom had left. An act of defiance, she supposed, though she never was sure where he got the money – it wasn't like they had it to throw around, after all. But he had all the papers for it, and a license, and the cops never could find any evidence that pointed towards his more shady dealings. It was one of the few honest things of his that she had left, like her worn-out shoes.

Blowing out another sigh, she swung her legs back to the floor and made to stand up. Beneath her hand, the notebook crinkled, and she paused, looking down at it for a minute, gaze skimming over the sketches and half-formed thoughts that she'd jotted down. Blinked. Then she glanced back up, over at the tarp. Back down again. Studied one doodle in particular, of a faceless rider bent over the handlebars of a half-formed sportsbike.

Slowly, she raised her head to stare at the tarp again, and felt like an idiot.

She'd being going about this from the wrong direction.

* * *

"…It's doable, I suppose."

"So this could work? I know it's a lot smaller frame than the original, but I didn't really think it mattered at this point." And she cast a pointed glance at the living corpse that resided in one corner of Ratchet's medbay. It's – his – limbs were placed in an orderly fashion below the pulverized, warped torso that housed the faint spark and little else. No, she didn't think it mattered that he would soon be downgraded from a four-door to a motorcycle – his body was so scrapped that it practically gave her a clean slate to work with.

Ratchet gave a rusty-sounding sigh. "It doesn't. Although why you still want to do this is beyond my logic processors, but Optimus approves, and Ironhide's backing him. I can't really argue with that." He sounded almost as cross as when he'd first heard of the absurd idea to reformat Barricade. Thankfully, that particular fit hadn't lasted very long, and it had been far from his beloved supply of wrenches.

Using the transformation cog had been Mikaela's suggestion, something that would make this project move along much more swiftly. At first she'd tried to assemble an alt form for the offline Decepticon, attempting to use parts of cars or SUVs in order to structure his frame. That plan had fallen through faster than one of Starscream's when she realized just how complex it would be.

Putting together a protoform, a basic outline of a body, would both take less time and also put her knowledge of Cybertronian physiology to the test, without breaking her brain. It was, surprisingly, ordered similarly to that of a human body – besides the obvious head, torso and limbs, there were veins and nerve clusters placed similarly to hers. To build any machine was to start with the frame, the chassis, and then move on to the outer components. The transformation cog would take care of the rest. They simply had to activate it, and scan the vehicle of choice, and presto! Instant alt mode. She was still mentally kicking herself for not thinking of it sooner.

And why was she doing this in the first place, they'd all wondered?

Really, it was the challenge. She'd fed the you-could-use-all-the-mechs-you-can-get line to Optimus, and of course she'd meant it – so far there had been no new arrivals, no responses whatsoever to Prime's broadcast, and they had to step up their game _fast_ before the Decepticons made their next move. But she also wanted to be _useful_ , not just the girlfriend of the guy who saved the world. She had plans, and they didn't involve sitting on the sidelines.

So she would add a new weapon to the Autobots' arsenal. Courtesy of a reprogramming virus that was ready to be placed in Barricade's central processing unit, once his body was complete they would have another soldier to wield against their enemies, and give them an edge that they desperately needed.

As to the material dilemma – if they couldn't rebuild Jazz, just how was she planning on building a whole new mech? - she had an answer ready for them. She'd dug deep into the 'net, even calling up Glen, the computer savant, to help her out. He, being the absolute geek that he was, knew exactly what she was looking for, and gave her all the info he could track down on the special material.

Adamantium was mostly speculation and urban legend at that point, but she'd heard things through gear heads she knew on the Web. It was a promising start, and when she put all the information in front of Ratchet, he'd immediately done his own research on the mythical metal. His own routine scan of the Earth as he'd entered the atmosphere all those months ago confirmed what she'd discovered. It was with a shiver in his processors that he realized this, along with the last remaining shard of All Spark, could be the answer to Jazz's predicament.

He looked down at the notebook, so tiny in his enormous hands, and eyed the sketches there with something like trepidation. It _could_ work, he thought ruefully; they just needed to figure out how to handle the material. They would have to prepare molds in advance – once the substance cooled, there wouldn't be a degree hot enough to reshape it. Only the mech's nannites would be able to alter it, in order to configure the alt mode to the protoform.

Repairing nannites were a thing of miracles, in his opinion, despite his firm belief that science was the answer to just about everything. They could break substances down to the most miniscule particles, and pull them back together seamlessly, leaving no trace that there was ever more than one piece. He'd had to rely on them almost more times than he could count for a vast percentage of his more delicate operations, and they almost always came through - it simply depended on the mech. They had to _want_ to survive, and no amount of repair and steady, dedicated maintenance could change the outcome if a body gave up the will to fight. He only hoped that once he downloaded the reformatting virus, some of the old Prowl's determination would resurface, and provide the necessary measures it would take to finish the process.

He glanced back up at the human that stood so confidently before him, and scowled. She didn't even blink, which made him just made him glare harder. A cool smile was her only response, and he muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and handed her back the notebook.

"So when do you want to start?"

* * *

Tracking down Adamantium was only the beginning of what would become one of the longest, most arduous, and ultimately most life-changing missions she'd ever taken part in. Anything that could top it would be like…rebuilding Cybertron, she reckoned later.

Of course, the whole time it was happening she never gave it too much thought, save for the occasional resurfacing in the Real World, when Sam would drag her away from the lab and out to a movie, or bowling, or some other activity that his parents deemed 'respectable.' Not that there was anything _wrong_ with any of that, but it always put the reality of her situation in sharp relief, causing her to pause and wonder just what the _hell_ she was thinking, trying to build her own robot.

Then Sam would glance down at the hand he was holding, the once baby-smooth skin marked by growing burns and scratches, and frown just a little, and she would scowl back at him. "It's what I want to do," would be her usual reply. She'd tried explaining it to him, and to an extent he understood. The need to be helpful, to pull your own weight amongst an alien species that consisted of minds vastly superior to your own. To feel like you were contributing, and not just along for the ride. He saw all of that, but still protested, up to a point.

"You really need to get out of the Garage more, y'know? Mom's been complaining – she wants your Gramma over for dinner again, and not just _her_ this time. Seeing as how you're my girlfriend, it's kind of a given that you would be there. At my house, eating my food. Partaking in family outings. Or innings, I guess, I don't know what you'd call it. Whatever, you should come."

He'd gotten a little better at catching himself before he started rambling, but still managed a mouthful sometimes. It made her smile and roll her eyes most of the time, like now. "I already said I was sorry for that. I just get caught up in my work, is all."

"And I get that. It's hot that you like your work so much. But do you think you could like it a little less _often_? It's not like he's going to just get up and walk away while you're not there…is he? I mean, he doesn't even have legs yet, so I don't think he can really run too well – "

"Sam. He's not even _awake_ , much less functioning. That's why I want to get this done, so we can have more time to ourselves." A little white lie, not entirely false, but not an absolute truth, either. She _adored_ spending time with Sam. He actually made her feel worth something. Like a real person, not just a possession, and it was a feeling she treasured. And the fact that encouraged her passion for machines was something she'd never had before. His utter devotion and enthusiasm for her caught her off-guard, made her a little uncertain. What were his motives? Was he building up to something? When was he going to start plying her for sex?

All this and an alien race in my backyard, she thought sardonically. How did she ever get to be so lucky?

They were never far from her mind. Even when she was out with her clique, an occurrence that became more and more rare with time, she was laying out specs, drawing mental energon lines in the back of her head. One time she dropped her moped keys in her soda, and she spat out a Cybertronian curse automatically, not thinking to correct herself. When she looked up from fishing them out of the drink, she met raised eyebrows and bemused smirks. "What?"

"Ever since you starting going with that Witticky kid, you've been acting like you got pulled from the Twilight Zone. And now, what, you two have your own language or something? That's sick, Mikaela."

Once school started again, things changed even more noticeably. She came to class one morning in the same shirt she'd worn yesterday, for starters, which got people talking for the next week. She'd resumed sitting with Sam and, she noted with a slight grimace, Miles, which was also a point for gossip, though not as much as it had been last year.

Her personal favorite was the coverall fiasco. She'd actually gone so far as to spend the night at the Autobots' warehouse, and the only extra pair of clothes she had with her had gasoline spilled all down their front, an incident that had involved an arguing Ironhide and Ratchet. To add to the general madness, she'd gotten woken up late by a grouchy Ironhide, who succinctly informed her that he was not her personal alarm clock, and had to break several traffic laws in order to beat the final bell. She'd ended up wearing her working coveralls, and just about died of embarrassment when she stepped in through the doors to find every pair of eyes glued to her.

Sam had saved her, finding her after first period and lending her his gym shirt – he made Miles give up an extra pair of shorts he'd had stashed in his locker. All in all, it was an unfortunately memorable day. It did make Miles finally warm up to her a little, when she thanked him humbly and profusely for his pants, and bestowed a kiss on his glowing cheek.

Of course, when she got home that afternoon her Gramma gave her an earful. She had called her the night before (more like early that morning), and made sure the older lady knew where she was, so she wouldn't go running off to the cops to report her missing. Not that Gramma Jodi would actually do it – she was understandably wary of the police, after the treatment her son had received at their hands. None of that, however, stopped the woman from venting her considerable spleen on her granddaughter. From now on, she snapped, if those aliens had any consideration for an old woman's heart at all, they'd do her the courtesy of giving her only grandchild a ride home at night. Then she proceeded to call up Optimus and give him the same speech, which he received with a generous amount of patience.

One day she sat down and realized that it had been six whole months since she'd started her project. It boggled her a little, that so much time had passed and seemingly so little had been done. In her eyes, at least; Ratchet claimed that they were making excellent progress, and she had to take his word for it. The molds had been completed, and they were refining the Adamantium now. Soon they would be melting it down, and piece by piece the Decepticon would become whole again.

She shivered a little when she contemplated the process that would render him useful. They were going to have to infect him and wipe his processing core clean, in order for them to bend him to their will – any useful data would be filtered through and stored separately. It was a wholly unpleasant thought, one she ignored when she could, in favor of the more physical aspect of her work.

She had some ideas on how to modify the bike, adding a frail for one thing – he was going to need somewhere to fit his armor, she supposed, and the extra engine covering would do nicely. It seemed almost a crime to cover up such a beautifully naked machine, but sacrifices had to be made. And honestly, the whole frame could stand to be widened; if they wanted him to have any bulk whatsoever, they'd have to. She could tinker with the transforming cog and see what she came up with. There should be a way to enlarge the scale – Ratchet could help with that; he was the more mathematically-inclined between the two of them.

So she submersed herself in her work, and as time went on she slowly lost sight of the little details – the late nights, the missed dates with Sam, the sidelong glances at school. Things that used to mean the world to her suddenly took a back seat to her new obsession, and it wasn't until dinner with the Witwickys one evening that it all came crashing down on her.

* * *

"So, Mikaela, what exactly _are_ your plans after high school?" Judy Witwicky delicately speared a head of broccoli and popped it in her mouth, never once taking her wide, assessing eyes off the girl.

_The same thing it's been since, oh, junior high?_ She thought to herself sardonically, and repressed a sigh. It seemed like no matter how many times she tried to rebuff them, the Witwickys held on to this topic like a junkyard dog with a particularly juicy trespasser. For what felt like the five hundredth time that evening, she smiled her General Audience smile, and set her glass back down. "Mrs. Witwicky, I really just want to go to junior college – get a degree in business or financing." Her usual answer, perhaps edged with the tiniest bit of exasperation. How many times did she have to say it before this woman would believe it, anyway?

From out the corner of her eye, she caught Sam's wink, and let her smile deepen for a minute, before turning back to her plate of lasagna and mixed vegetables. To her right, Ron Witwicky picked through his own plate dubiously, eyeing the lasagna in particular. "Hon, you sure this meat is cooked all the way through?"

"Oh, for the Lord's sake, Ron, I _do_ know how to cook," Judy retorted, stabbing said food with a little more force than necessary. Forking a mouthful, she chewed thoughtfully for a minute, before eyeing her own plate a little suspiciously. Beside Mikaela, Sam groaned.

"It's perfect, Mom, seriously. This is grade-A grub right here, huh?" And he shot a look at Mikaela. She nodded vigorously, making sure to take an extra-large bite of her food, and gave Judy the thumbs-up. This seemed to pacify her somewhat, for she turned her full attention back to the girl, and spoke as if their conversation had never been interrupted.

"Yes, but what do you want to _do_? I mean, obviously you don't want to work in that smelly old garage the rest of your life."

Mikaela felt that familiar twitch in her eyebrow, and her lips drew back into what she knew wasn't a nice smile. She felt more than saw Sam start beside her, but ignored him. More for his sake than anything, she made an effort to compose herself, smoothing out her napkin with a deliberate air of calm, and straightening the silverware that lay on top of it, all the while counting to ten in her head.

When she looked back up, her smile wasn't quite as twisted as it had been, but it never reached her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she finally responded. "Actually, Mrs. Witwicky, I really _do_. I fully intend to have my own garage by the time I'm thirty." She sat back in her chair, relishing the comically surprised expression that the older woman wore. "That's why I want to go into business so badly. If I'm going to run a successful company, I'll need to know how to manage it in the first place."

On her other side, Ron Witwicky slumped in his chair. "So you _don't_ want to be a lawyer?" He asked, somewhat plaintively. He and his wife had agreed that, if Mikaela was going to be sticking around, it may come in handy to have a lawyer in the family or at least on a first-name basis. Hopefully Sam wouldn't screw up too badly and alienate her. Really, it would be just their luck to need some legal help and get stuck with a vengeful ex.

The girl in question blew out an exasperated breath, not bothering to disguise it. "No, Mr. Witwicky, I'm pretty sure I don't want to be a lawyer. As much incentive as I might have –" and here she glanced at Sam very quickly, to which he responded with an apologetic grimace – "I really, _really_ don't want to sit behind a desk all day and clean up other people's messes." Although she was fairly certain that Ron and Judy knew about her father – Sam may not have ever known had Simmons not let that fun little detail slip, but that didn't mean that his parents were totally oblivious to the goings-on at their only son's school – they had never actually said anything to her. Which surprised her (okay, it actually shocked the hell out of her; she was expecting at least a _joke_ from Mrs. Witwicky, but so far nothing).

And then Sam went and ruined everything by doing what he did best – letting his brain compute directly to his mouth without using that handy-dandy thing called a _filter_. "Well, you're already working for the government, so you're probably picking up some tips from Ratchet – didn't he used to be some sort of diplomaaaat...ic…d…di…

_damn_."

He slumped down in his chair, muttering the oath into his lasagna. Mikaela stared at him, a little bit irritated and not really surprised. Vaguely she registered his mother sputtering into her wine, and his father rapping out a sharp " _Excuse_ me?"

Slaggit, they weren't supposed to _know_ about that. Nice, Witwicky. Real nice.

She swallowed back the acid that rose in her throat, and grit her teeth against the harsh words that threatened to escape. Instead, she turned back to the table's other occupants, ignoring Sam for the time being, and proceeded to do damage control.

It was no secret at _her_ house that she worked underneath the Autobots' authority, and by association, the Army. What she did and everything she learned there stayed at their makeshift base, of course, but her Gramma knew where she went and that she worked (unpaid, of course) alongside government-appointed agents. Not literally, because if she had to spend _that_ much time around the current liaison, she was going to pull an Ironhide and kick a damn _tank_ halfway across the state out of sheer frustration. But officially (or unofficially, if you wanted to wanted to look at it that way), she was under the employ of the United States government.

And as of right now the Witwickys hated them with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.

So no, them having any idea that she worked with the people who had disrupted their lives so rudely and unashamedly (discounting Director Keller's personal and, she thought, rather heartfelt apology to them in person for all the chaos that had been dumped into their laps) was not high up on her list of 'things to discuss with your boyfriend's parents.' It was way down there towards the bottom, along with 'my dad's a jailbird and if Sam and several very indignant Autobots hadn't stepped up for me, I would probably be right there with him.'

Sitrep: screwed.

Mikaela did her level best not to squirm beneath the two gimlet stares being directed towards her. She'd faced down guns bigger than this table, she'd faced Ratchet when she accidentally snipped a neuron cable in his neck and made him suffer through two days of everyone asking him why he kept twitching like that – she could take on a couple of disapproving humans, right?

She swallowed nervously and gave them her most charming, shit-eating grin.

* * *

Half an hour later, her ears were ringing, and she was curled up in Bumblebee's back seat, fuming and biting back hot, angry tears. _How dare they._ How _dare_ they presume to know what she wanted. They didn't even know _her._

_You're not a kid anymore, Mikaela. You have to be_ realistic _._

_They're going to pull you in and suck you dry, and then you'll be left all on your own – what about your grandmother?_

_You need to get a real job. Hiding out in a garage and playing with cars and giant aliens isn't going to get you anywhere in life._

_Do you even_ see _your friends anymore? What do you_ mean _, those things are your friends? I'm talking about your own kind!_

_You can't trust them – eventually they're going to realize that they've got better things to do than play around with you, and start experimenting on you, and don't you come crying to me when they cut you up and study your appendix!_

…Granted, Judy _had_ been a little tipsy. That didn't make it hurt any less, though.

Poor Sam, he was outside the garage door, calling to her to let him in so they could talk. And he had tried so valiantly to defend both her and Bumblebee. But the mech had locked the door up tight, and he couldn't get in. With a snarl, she scrubbed furiously at the tears that pricked at her eyes. She tried to turn her tell-tale sniffle into a casual snort, but it didn't quite work. In the background, she could hear Bee's radio playing something soft and wordless; anything with lyrics would be sure to get her wound up again, and she needed like hell to calm down.

Trying to distract herself, she leaned into the front seat to check her mascara; it hadn't done much but get a little blurry. Still, she dabbed at it with the hem of her blouse, and Bee obligingly crooned ' _yo_ _u're beautiful'_ in James Blunt's voice. Sighing, she patted the seat beside her. "Thanks, Bee. Even though I don't think you really know the difference between 'drowned cat' and 'runway model,' but it's appreciated."

His engine sputtered, sounding a little indignant. She had to smile at the sound, something familiar and dear to her. And for some reason it struck her, really _hit_ her, that yes, she was inside a car, talking to it, and it was talking back. Not like the junkers she spent hours beneath the hoods of; they had their own language, one of gasping rattles and pings and chugs, an unconscious, mechanized tongue, from inanimate objects she'd spent a lifetime learning about.

But she was sitting inside a 2007 concept Chevy Camaro, chatting away, and it was responding to her the way any other human would.

Without warning, a giggle bubbled out of her, and then another. Suddenly, she was clinging to the front passenger seat, laughing so hard she couldn't support herself, sounding absolutely hysterical even to her own ears. Bumblebee's engine revved, and the seats beneath her shifted some, and she knew if he was in his true form, he'd be cocking his head in confusion. Still she couldn't stop, and she pressed her damp face to the warm leather, trying to catch her breath.

"S-sorry, Bee...I just think I might've gone crazy for a second." She still quivered with suppressed laughter, and she finally leaned back, sinking into the seat. She swiped halfheartedly at her face, not really caring about her makeup anymore, but trying to make an effort.

" _What's up, pussycat?"_ Queried the radio, and for some reason it almost set her off again. With an effort, she forced it down, and took a deep, cleansing breath.

"I think it just hit me – how ridiculous and seriously _fuc_ _ked_ _up_ this whole thing is. I mean, here I am worrying about disappointing my boyfriend's parents with career choices, while sitting inside a giant alien _car_." She snorted, and pushed back her hair.

" _There's no need for you to worry,"_ sang Aaron Neville, and Mikaela smiled a bit. The song continued –

" _If you worry about tomorrow,_

_It will only bring you sorrow…"_

She hummed along absently, and suddenly, like clouds lifting, she felt a little better. Not completely, but it was a start. It was true, she decided. Who were they to make her worry and feel bad about herself? She was an _adult_ , dammit, and she knew how to make her own choices. And why was she so worked up about it? Two people's opinion wasn't the end of the world – she'd been there, done that, ripped up the t-shirt. It was like comparing the engine of her moped to…well, Bumblebee's.

They didn't know anything about her, or her life, or what she felt. If she wanted to spend the rest of her life in a greasy, cluttered, noisy garage and work on alien cars, then she'd go right ahead and do it. Worrying about what could come next was like trying to – trying to see the future at the bottom of a wine bottle, as her Gramma liked to say sometimes. All you got was a giddy feeling and a huge headache come morning. Pointless.

" _So?"_ Chirped the radio, and she let her smile widen. He might not have said much, but it was enough to get her head back on straight. He really was one of a kind, she decided, and ran a thumb down the detailed stitching in the seat. Bee shuddered happily and tilted on his carriage a little.

"So I think you're right. I'm not going to let a couple of squishies tell me what to do. I know my own mind, and trying to worry about it won't get me anything but a headache."

The horn beeped, a sharp, encouraging staccato of notes that reverberated in her ears. With a hoarse chuckle, she shook her head and popped open her door. She squared her shoulders and held her breath for a moment, letting it back out in a hearty gust. The Camaro rocked happily, and she moved to pat him. The fine-tuned engine purred in contentment.

She really needed to apologize to Sam, at least, for storming off the way she did. He'd done his best to buffer her from his parents' drunken ire, but all he'd seemed to do was make things worse. Still, not his fault. He was, at heart, a Momma's Boy, and it seemed to impede his stronger rebellious impulses at times. Despite the frag-fest tonight had turned out to be, it was really one of the things she loved about him – his devotion to his parents. It was something she could relate to, and she respected him for it. "I guess you should let him in now."

He did so, to the tune of the Black-Eyed Peas' " _Let's Get It Started!"_ She snorted and shook her head, and turned to face a very worried Sam.


	3. Fear and Love and What's Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chain reactions really aren't as cool as they sound; they're more troublesome than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter the OC...kinda. Actually it's Alexis from Armada, but the only things they have in common are the name and an affiliation with a certain Decepticon. I would especially appreciate any feedback you can give me on her in the future, as well as anything else you can think of. Quote is from Yeats.

_We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us._

The med bay was still tonight; Ratchet was catching a couple hours of recharge in the back, and the doors were set to emergency entry only. If someone like Ironhide or even Optimus needed access, an alert would come in through Ratchet's comm., but the doors would remain locked until he himself turned off the security device. The only current source of light came from the large, transparent tank that sat off to the far left of the doors, almost hidden from view by a tall rack of spare parts and medical equipment. The stasis chamber, compiled of concrete, unrefined lead, and bulletproof plexiglass, housed the dormant form of Barricade, keeping the slight radiation leak from his unshielded spark at bay, and stabilizing the faint energy that kept him alive.

Set up against the wall adjacent to this, the assembly line lay quiet and still. The only thing that moved in the darkness of the room was the girl, as she retraced her steps back down the side of the long, narrow machine. Pieces of Adamantium armor still lay in their molds, shining brilliantly in the cold blue light cast from the chamber. She set a hand to one piece, what looked like a shoulder guard, and the chill from the silky-smooth metal ran up her arm. Colder than it should have been, really. Running almost reverent fingers across the curve and dip of it, she leaned closer, until her breath fogged the nearly perfect reflection of her eyes. The metal seemed to retain an almost otherworldly chill, a complete contrast to the smelting heat of the casting furnace it had recently been through.

 _Tomorrow,_ she thought with a giddy swoop in her stomach. _Tomorrow, you'll have a purpose. And I'll be the one to give it to you._

Hands still palming the slick armor, she turned so that she could just see the glowing stasis chamber from behind the monolith of a supply rack. The dim, blue light gave off a slow, steady pulse, almost like a heartbeat. She knew that sparks were, in the most basic of ways, the equivalent to a human heart. But it was so much more than an organ that pumped out life-giving fluids; it was the very essence of their being, the energy that kept every single one of their numerous systems going, from their weaponry to their transformations to their memory processors. It was as if the ancient Egyptian belief, that the heart was the origin of the soul, had been brought to bright and effervescent life. It both fascinated and unnerved her.

The sluggish rhythm of the pulses had a calming, almost hypnotic effect, and she let her hand slide off the piece of armor, fingertips lingering for just a moment before dropping to her side. With an air of caution and curiosity, she moved towards the glowing chamber, her footfalls silent beneath the gentle hum of the energy coming off of the machine. She'd never been allowed within a couple of yards of the thing, even though it was _her_ project, and she had every right to inspect it if she so chose. Ratchet, whether through a healthy dose of paranoia or something else entirely, refused to let her near it – that rack in the way was her 'boundary line.' It wasn't as if the mech was going to wake up and start shooting, anyway. It was just a box full of static electricity, nothing more - so she told herself. Something nestled deep within the instinctual roots of her brain whispered something else entirely, even as she sidled up close to the chamber, closer than she'd ever been before.

Bathed in the soft glow, watching the strong, steady waves of electricity roll through the compartment, she almost didn't catch herself as she leaned into the glass. She pulled back hastily even as strands of her hair slowly start to waft upwards towards the static. The girl ran a distracted hand over her head, absently smoothing the crackling wisps back into her ponytail. This close up, she could see the cracks in the armor that housed the dormant spark, the tiny slivers of blistering light that seemed to be demanding to be set free. Even in stasis mode and torn down to mere fragments of himself, the Decepticon blazed with vitality. Something else she noticed, the phenomenon that caught and held her undivided attention, was the way the waves of energy seemed to deepen and become brighter, the closer she moved to it. Was this a normal occurrence? Or possibly just the Con's twisted spark, sensing a human nearby.

The whole thing rested about level with her nose, which meant she had to stand on tiptoe if she wanted a fuller view. She scowled and _hmm_ 'ed to herself, craning her neck to get a better look at the rest of the shredded chassis. _How,_ she thought to herself somewhat irritably, _how is Ratchet going to keep me away from this once we start the building process?_ _What am I supposed to do, install some radiation-insulated gloves into the side here and work through the glass? As if._ She grunted in annoyance, carelessly reaching up her left hand up to steady herself on the transparent covering as she tipped forward.

Several things happened at once, none of it expected and all of it…well, shocking.

The entire tank shuddered and lit up like a mini supernova, and the jolt of the sudden electrical surge juddered up her arm agonizingly. Mikaela bit back a yelp and pulled back sharply – or at least attempted to. It felt as if her hand was magnetized to the glass, securing her in place as the energy swept through her. As she opened her mouth to call for Ratchet - if he could even _hear_ her right now - she tasted ozone and felt sparks snap between her teeth. Around her the air cracked and bled lightning, the built-up friction igniting the oxygen-filled space and setting it on fire.

Her lungs felt compressed, and suddenly she couldn't breathe. The energy that was confined to the chamber burned ever brighter, churning like a white-hot firestorm in a hurricane. As she tried desperately to suck in another breath, the light from the tank phased right through the indestructible material as if it wasn't even there, and engulfed her trapped hand. It lingered there for a moment, burning as if she had stuck her limb into a chest of ice and left it there. The precious air she had so arduously fought for was released in a rush, and the corporeal light swept up her arm and wrapped itself around her, moving in long, sinuous strokes around her neck, down her back and legs. It ghosted across her bare skin, leaving a chilled, tingling sensation in its wake as it enveloped her briefly.

And just as abruptly as it had escaped, the light receded, and the entire medical bay went pitch black as the energy collapsed in on itself. Nothing. Not a flicker of light, anywhere. In the darkness, Mikaela found herself holding a much-needed breath, eyes wide and unblinking as spots floated in her vision. Blood roared through her skull, pounding in a harsh, staccato beat in time with her hammering heart.

_Okay. Okay. So. That happened._

The air exploded from her chest, and suddenly she found herself on her knees – she couldn't remember how she got there, but her legs felt watery and unstable, and her entire body was a limp, wrung-out noodle. Panting, she raised her head on a wobbly neck and tried to get a look at the chamber she knew was right in front of her. Of course she still couldn't see anything, but in her mind's eye it was lit up like the Fourth of July. The image of her hand glued to the glass, the angry, twisting energy that consumed it and everything around her, stayed on the back of her eyelids. She opened them wide, and palmed away the sweat that she felt trickling through her hairline.

And then she could see again, just barely. She was looking down again, settled awkwardly on her hands and knees, and the pale blue light crept across the tips of her fingers, reflecting dully on the concrete floor in front of her. With a startled grunt, she propelled herself off the cold, hard ground, searching for something to lean on, _anything_ besides the stasis chamber. Finding nothing but the supply rack behind her, she backed away on rubbery legs, searching with her hands for the metal she knew was there. Fortunately, it was far too big and heavy for her to tip over, and she leaned into it gratefully. The blood still pounded in her ears, drowning out her raspy breaths. She never once took her eyes off the dimly lit vault, but the only thing it did was glow – rather smugly, she could almost swear.

She waited for another excruciating, endless minute, struggling to catch her breath. Never once did the light beat out of time; it kept the same sluggish, steady tempo it had before she had come and screwed it up. Finally she discovered that her legs still worked if she moved them, and wasted no time in beating a hasty retreat. Her vocal cords worked just fine, too, as she bellowed for Ratchet to _wake the hell up_.

* * *

Aside from a tender palm and fingertips, she checked out alright. The same could not be said for her pride, as the medic blistered her ears for the entire duration of her exam. She took it as part of her penance for disobeying a direct order, and didn't try _too_ hard to defend herself as a result. Will hovered in the background, along with a stoic Optimus – who didn't so much hover as _loom_ , as unobtrusive as she was sure he was attempting to be.

Ratchet had just finished up with a very direct threat to take the entire project away from her, when Sam and Bee came bursting through the unlocked doors, the mech blaring out the Cavalry Charge from his speakers. "Crap, Mikaela, what did you _do_? Is she okay, Ratch? Did that Con do something to her? Hey, Will -"

"Sam."

"So what's going on? I thought the bay _exploded_ or something. With you guys in it! Mikaela –"

Optimus took the necessary steps to head Sam off before he could get too wound up. "Sam, Ratchet informs us that Mikaela is unharmed. As you can see, the medical bay did _not_ explode, but – Bumblebee, please quiet down; there's no need to sound that way –" Bee had switched over to the Funeral Dirge, optics overflowing with wiper-fluid as he wrung his servos helplessly – "I believe it would be for the best if you two took the night off. Bumblebee?"

Forgetting his act entirely, the scout straightened to attention and nodded sharply to Prime. "You c-c-can count on me!" His real voice still crackled from time to time, and certain consonants seemed to trip him up if he didn't catch himself. Ratchet had helped him recalibrate his vocal processors, spending countless evenings adjusting and tweaking different systems until he sounded more like the medic remembered. Bumblebee himself had certain ideas about how he was 'supposed' to sound, and strove to emulate the younger generation. Mikaela thought he sounded rather cute; Ironhide snorted and said he sounded like a glitch-head. You couldn't please everyone.

In the end it was determined that Barricade had performed an alpha-level scan on her; something that normally only Ratchet was wont to do, as part of his routine systems checks on the various humans that came through his medbay with some injury or another. It was an unofficial agreement between men and mechs – in order to learn first-hand human physiology, a few of the more daring soldiers would, before heading to their own medic's quarters, stop in to see Ratchet, for a quick scan and diagnosis. The alpha-level, or the setting most amenable to organic structures, was used to further the Cybertronians' knowledge of the human species. Ratchet and Bumblebee were perhaps the two most informed of the group, being the ones that were around the humans the most. Optimus picked things up quickly, however, as part of his effort to connect with the officials and liaisons he was constantly in contact with.

So Mikaela was officially released from Ratchet's somewhat overwhelming care, and Sam came along with her and Bumblebee. There was an anxious air around her boyfriend tonight, and Bumblebee's radio kept fluctuating, never quite settling on one station, a sure sign he was holding back a barrage of questions. She tried to settle back in the bucket seat, normally something that wasn't a problem for her, but her body was still tense, as if it knew it needed to do something, but she couldn't figure out what.

Finally she caught Sam _not_ looking at her for the fifth time, and huffed a little. "Sam, I'm not going to go berserk and start foaming at the mouth. Is there something you want to say?"

Apparently Sam had plenty he wanted to say, and both he and Bumblebee tripped over each other's words, talking over each other eagerly. Sam wondered why she had gone up to the containment unit in the first place; the yellow bot was curious as to why she was acting as if she was injured, when Ratchet had declared her fit and cleared for duty. She scowled at both of the questions, wondering why, after all they had gone through, Sam still sometimes acted as if he were afraid of his own shadow. So her tone was a bit churlish when she answered, "Gee, Sam, I just wondered if the big scary _piece of scrap_ would get up and dance for me, that's all. Bee, I'm _fine_. I'm just tired, and shook up, and wondering how the _hell_ it all happened in the first place. _Okay?"_

There was a startled, awkward silence that slowly pulled itself taut, dragging at her nerves. Sam was blinking at her, obviously hurt, and Bumblebee's radio had snapped itself off abruptly. She rolled her shoulders in an attempt to alleviate the tension, but all it did was pull at a crick in her neck. Beside her in the driver's seat, Sam swallowed, absently tapping fingers on Bee's steering wheel.

When he finally replied, it was with a seriousness that she rarely witnessed. "You scared me. You don't – you can't do that again. Alright? It's like, ever since we first met – well, officially, anyway – we've been in constant mortal peril. It's just one thing after another, and when things finally start to get back to something resembling normal, you decide to go all Dr. Frankenstein on me and resuscitate a freakin' _Decepticon._ It's like," and his voice shook with some unidentified emotion, as if this were something he was just now fully realizing, "it's like you _want_ to be in danger. You've been pulling away from everything, from me, from your friends and school and everything that's supposed to be normal and –"

"So what? I'm a freak now? Because I actually enjoy putting my talents to good use? Excuse the hell out of me, Sam Witwicky, for wanting to be helpful."

"That's just it, Mikaela! This thing, this project, is such bullshit! It's not useful, it's not remotely logical! Just because this guy apparently has some sort of intel on a dead Autobot does not make it okay to revive him and put a weapon in his hands! Extra asset, my –"

Anything else Sam might have said was cut off abruptly as Bumblebee's brakes squealed, jerking both teens forward with surprised yelps. Sam's arm shot out to cling to Mikaela, attempting to brace her from impact with the dashboard. Sputtering, the two looked at each other, wide-eyed and suddenly wary. "Bee, what the hell?"

"You are q-questioning a decision mmmade by your mate, a decision Optimus Prime sanc-ctioned. Do neither of their opinions matter to you, in the face of your fear? Won't you at least hear her out?"

Mikaela found herself blinking hard, feeling the pinprick of tears threatening to overwhelm her. She looked down at the hand that lingered on her arm, the one that Sam had caught when they had stopped so suddenly. When she stole a glance at the boy in question, she found him slumped forward, the fight gone from him. Just as quickly, she felt the anger drain from her, and she reached out to touch his hand tentatively.

He slowly raised his eyes up to hers, fear and something she didn't want to put a name to, not yet, lingering in his face. She let their fingers intertwine, squeezing him lightly. When he returned the gesture, she felt more of the frustration dissipate, and let herself relax back into the plush seat. She could feel Bumblebee thrumming softly around them, hearing with a finely tuned ear the otherworldly hum that his engine gave off. He was otherwise silent, and let the two young people have their moment.

Sam opened his mouth, paused, and attempted to start again. He looked vaguely frustrated, more with himself than anything, and she didn't interrupt, letting him find the words he was searching for. Finally he looked back up at her, determination setting his jaw. "You just need to know that you…you have people that care about you, and worry about you. _I_ worry about you. I mean, I know, sure, you can take care of yourself, you're like, She-Ra, but even you can't run on fumes. You're not Cybertronian, and you don't have rechargeable batteries. You need a _break_ , Mikaela. Hell, Ratchet thinks you need a break. Bee thinks you need a break, my _mom_ – "

"Ok, yeah, your point has been made. Remember our rule?"

"…Unless they've been hospitalized or are otherwise in mortal peril, my parents don't exist?"

" _Thank_ you."

"Yeah, well, you know what I'm talking about. That Decepticon's not going anywhere. Let's go have some fun, go for a drive, go see a – a chick flick or something – what? I can't be sensitive to women's' needs? I have a built-in _radar_ to pick up all those little non-verbal signals you girls give off. I have cracked the code, I have –"

She couldn't help it; she shut him up with a kiss. When they finally came up for air, he had a dopey, slightly disbelieving grin plastered across his face, as if after all these months he still couldn't believe that _she_ wanted to kiss _him._ That he didn't take her for granted was just one more trait that endeared him to her. With a smirk, she brushed her mouth across his teasingly, and laughed when he attempted to follow her as she pulled back. She tapped his nose with a finger, and shoved him back into his seat. Around them, Bee shifted, and Sam patted the steering wheel. "You know, sometimes you're a genius. You know that?"

" _You just now figured that out?"_

Mikaela burst out laughing, and Sam made an exasperated sound. "Cocky S.O.B., too." With that, the Autobot's engine revved, a little proudly, the teens thought, and they pulled back out onto the highway towards home.

A minute later, Mikaela felt a hand over hers, and she looked down at their fingers tangled together on the console between them. Sam glanced at her from out the corner of his eye, and she gave him a bemused smile. It looked like he was planning something – which could end up going swimmingly, or horribly, horribly wrong, depending on how confident he was feeling. Judging by the hesitant smile curling up his mouth, she decided that this one might actually be worth hearing.

"You know…" and his fingers did a little dance across hers, "Mojo hasn't been to the beach in a while. He's probably due for a nice, long, romantic walk across the sand at sunset, a little moonlight dip in the ocean…"

"And does _Mojo_ have his parent's permission, and say, a week off from his summer job?" Mikaela's voice was as dry as the desert outside.

"We-eell, I'm sure he could have arranged…something…already…as in I already asked Dad and Mr. Randall for both?" His smile grew as he spoke, and he looked rather smug. Mikaela had to bite back the sudden, overwhelming urge to throw her arms around him and laugh – or cry, or both. Blinking, startled by the unexpected surge of affection, she instead settled for a slow, pleased smile, and a tightening of her fingers around his.

Bee let out a cheerful cascade of notes, sounding his approval. _"Now_ that's _more like it!"_

Mikaela couldn't help but agree.

* * *

Her palm was itching again. She'd gotten so used to it over the past two weeks that now she only half-heartedly swiped it up and down her shorts, letting the friction soothe it. She didn't let it deter her from the mission at hand – packing for the beach.

Exactly _how_ Sam had talked his parents into the trip, she wasn't sure she wanted to know – but she was sure it involved some sort of mixture of blackmail, begging, and milking his Momma's Boy status for all it was worth. The fact that they weren't going with them was nothing short of a miracle. After Mission City, his parents – Judy, especially – had clung to him like burrs, setting curfews and demanding that he call them every hour that he was away from the house. Of course she couldn't blame them entirely; sometimes she envied Sam for his parents' excessive displays of devotion. But the fact that they were letting the two of them run off by themselves, Autobot guardian or no, baffled her. She was sincerely thankful she hadn't been part of that conversation.

The girl made a face at the two different bathing suits laid out in front of her. The gold strapless bikini, or the black and red floral monokini…? She _hmmed_ to herself, rubbing her thumb across her other hand's palm absently. And she couldn't forget her wetsuit, stashed in the back of her closet for those rare times she actually got to surf. Mostly her past trips to the beach had consisted of drunken keggers and heavy make-out sessions, with some fun in the shallows. The guys she hung out with didn't exactly appreciate being showed up by a girl who could hang ten better than they could.

 _Both,_ she finally decided. Variety is most definitely the spice of life…and Sam hadn't seen either of these yet. She smirked, and went about finding space in her duffel bag for the outfits.

Later, all toiletries, wetsuit, and board wax ready to go, she headed downstairs to check on her Gramma. The older woman was digging around in one of the top cabinets, perched precariously on a stepstool, tiptoeing to see the contents of the shelf. Mikaela sighed to herself, and went to help the woman back down. "You _know_ what the doctor said about strain on your back, right? Or is your memory going, too?"

Jodi Banes swatted her only grandchild with the colander she had found. "It's not like I was doing back flips to make pancakes," was the smart retort, and Mikaela pursed her lips.

"…Fair enough. Just don't strain it anymore than you have to. You're sure you'll be alright while I'm gone?"

The matriarch arched one finely-plucked brow at her. "Honey, I've been taking care of myself _long_ before you happened. You're just a nice bonus." And Jodi patted her on the cheek, sweeping past her to the sink, managing to look regal with her long hair unbound and her green silk kimono open.

Mikaela shook her head, and grabbed up the box of uncooked spaghetti. "You always make me feel so appreciated." It didn't carry as much sarcasm as she would have liked, and her grandmother paused in her rinsing of the colander to look up at her. Faint silver eyebrows raised, and she studied Mikaela closely. Suddenly embarrassed, the girl ducked her head so that her hair fell in front of her face, not meeting her Gramma's eyes as she prepped the stove for the spaghetti.

Warm, callused fingers brushed her shoulder, and Mikaela peeked at the older woman through her curtain of hair. Her Gramma's smile was crooked, but filled with affection. "Darlin', you _are_. Never doubt that. This old lady would have been left to rot in some old folks' home if you hadn't stepped up when you did." It was a complete contradiction of her earlier claim, but both were true. Mikaela never doubted for a second that Jodi was in total control of her body and mind, yet her mother's side of the family, bless them, had different ideas.

They had refused to take their wayward niece in after Jake Banes' arrest and subsequent incarceration, but made sure that the State knew just how infirm and unfit his mother was, resulting in a two-year _visit_ to a government-funded supported living center. It wasn't until Mikaela, after having been dumped into foster care and written off as juvie material, wrangled herself a job at a convenience store across town, pulled her average C plus up to a steady A minus, and joined three different after-school activities, that she dared petition the State for her grandmother to be released. Using a fatal combination of feminine wiles, logic, and connections made in the nursing home during her Gramma's stay, she convinced a judge to let her come home, and spring Mikaela from the misery that was her foster home at the same time.

No one would ever accuse Mikaela of being a pushover. Especially that judge, once she got through with him.

Shaking off the sudden melancholy, she tossed her hair back and patted her Gramma's hand. "I am rather brilliant, aren't I?" She said with a breezy laugh. The older woman pinched her arm in return, before letting her hand, and the subject, drop.

They spent the remainder of the afternoon in companionable silence, each knowing the other's dinner routine and working around each other easily. A call from Sam disrupted them at one point, reminding her to stock up on sunblock, to which her Gramma replied with a sardonic "He _does_ know we live in the desert, yes?" Mikaela made a face at her over the mouthpiece and shooed her away.

The pasta was excellent, as always. Mikaela managed to wolf down two full helpings before she declared herself stuffed, while Jodi eyed the empty plate in front of her. "Sure you couldn't use a bit more? I think I can still see your ribs." Mikaela responded with a wadded up napkin. It landed square on her grandmother's nose.

* * *

"You're not going to test the neural command relays without me, are you? Because if I come back and find out you've taught him to juggle geese or something else equally ridiculous, I'm going to have to set your optical input system to pick up nothing but late-night infomercials."

"Truly, you are a diabolical creature," came the dry response as he ushered her out of the medbay. "I'll be sure to scrap that particular plan – just as soon as you're out of my sight. Now get out."

"I'm _trying_ to, Ratchet, but – "

"Mikaela, if I hear one more excuse to stay and worry over that disgusting excuse for a science project, I'm going to disable my audio receptors and pretend you're not here. That way, it won't be my fault if I step on you."

"But we're _so close_ , if the neural transmitter circuit's complete, he could be responding to basic script commands _tomorrow_ – "

The rest of that sentence was spoken to a closed set of doors. From behind them, she could just make out Ratchet setting the system to no admittance.

She let out a breath between her teeth, and made a point to stomp as she left the medical wing. Outside, Sam and Bumblebee eyed her warily. "Soooo…we good then?" Sam ventured to ask.

She shook her hair out her eyes and made a special effort to smile at him, letting go of her frustration as she did so. Ratchet was right, as usual. Her project would still be there when she got back; it wasn't like he was going to get up and walk away. Absently she rubbed her palm, letting the familiar action calm her. "We're good. Did _you_ remember all your bags?" She'd asked this when they'd first picked her up, too. With Sam, you couldn't be too careful.

"Yes, your Grace, I am ninety-nine point eight percent sure I've got everything this time."

She shook her head and leaned up to get a kiss. Beside her, she heard Bumblebee shift into alt mode, radio flicking on as he did so. "California Girls" drifted through his open windows. With a groan, Sam pulled back and went around to the driver's side, smacking the hood. "Bee, I think it's time we had a serious man-to-mech talk about your taste in music."

* * *

They were out of the city limits in two minutes flat, the heat waves rising from the asphalt washing over them and into Bee's interior. The hot wind felt good against Mikaela's face, and she leaned into her door, letting her head rest against the frame and watching the desert whip by. Beside her, Sam and Bee were in an intense debate involving the Beatles and anything created before 1995. The whole time, Sam never let go of her hand, and every so often, she would catch him glancing over at her. Finally she turned so that she could watch him argue.

He was never still. This was perhaps the first thing she'd noticed about him, when she had actually stopped to notice him at all. His hands were always busy, his face mobile and never able to hide anything. Everything, from his quirking eyebrows to his tapping toes, was forever in motion. It was as if the moment he was in wasn't moving fast enough for him. It was like him, she knew, to always want that next step, to run straight at whatever was coming. He was a bundle of nerves and giddiness and _feeling_ , and sometimes it left her a little exhausted just to be around him. As for herself, she was content where she was, never asking for anything else, never wanting what she couldn't see. But somehow he'd grabbed hold of her, and dragged her headlong into the deep end, where she found herself struggling to keep her head above water, afraid of what lay beneath the surface.

Bumblebee was the perfect medium. Funny how the two of them, with such distinctly separate outlooks and personalities, got on with him so well. Sometimes she wondered what they'd be like if he weren't there to buffer them, to anchor them to each other. Would they still be tied together, or would they have just worn down the connection that had sparked between them with their rampant differences?

Mikaela wondered. She hoped she'd never have to find out.

Sam snuck another glance at her and found her watching, and he threw her an unrepentant grin. She pursed her lips at his expression, and his smile grew. "What, I can't ogle my own girlfriend?"

As ever, she couldn't stop herself from smiling back. "Baby, save your eyes for the beach. You haven't seen anything yet."

* * *

A six hour drive felt like two, when they were able to entertain themselves without having to worry about who was driving. Sam usually remembered to keep one hand on the wheel, to keep up appearances should they pass anyone, but they were mostly left to themselves.

It was mid afternoon, and both of them were getting hungry. They'd worked their way through the small cooler full of junk food in Bee's back seat, but cold Twinkies and Milk Duds only go so far. Fortunately, their journey was coming to an end. Bee whistled to get their attention, and they tore their eyes away from each other to see where they were.

A long driveway wound in front of them, and at the top of a small, steep hill rose a house. It was built low and sprawling, in the style of the old ranch houses. Beyond it, they could hear the low roar of the ocean as it careened against the wall of the cliffs the home was situated on. It was a barren, wild looking place, strangely beautiful in its simplicity.

Bumblebee trilled softly in appreciation as he rolled to a stop. Mikaela silently agreed with him as she unfolded herself out of her seat, stretching out the kinks in her back. _This_ was what she had needed; Sam had been right, after all. No cities, no traffic, no bright lights to blind and distract her. Out here, there was space to breathe - and with their own private beach, no less. But hey, San Francisco was just half an hour away, if Bee was driving. Plenty of room, plenty of water, and plenty of therapy shopping. It made Mikaela's toes curl to think about it.

Sam grunted and groaned as he peeled himself out of his chair, clinging to Bee's door as he found his feet. Bumblebee laughed and wriggled his appendage, making Sam sway dangerously. "Okay, out-of-shape human needs a little support here, do you mind?" Apparently Bee didn't, because he kept right on doing it. Mikaela, used to their fraternal bickering, ignored the two and headed up the steep but short flight of stairs up to the porch of the house. They had called earlier, and she knew the person who owned the property was going to be there. Before she reached the screen door, however, it swung open.

The woman standing there was tall, made more so by the well-worn but polished military boots, fastidiously laced, the pants tucked into them. The plain white tee was spotless, tucked in neatly as well. She could just make out the silver chain the woman never took off, hidden beneath her top. The boots crossed themselves, the woman leaning smartly against the doorjamb with her arms folded. "Well? You didn't come with just the clothes on your back, did you?" Even her accent was neat and tidy, giving away her British upbringing. She jerked her chin out towards Sam and Bumblebee, who were still going at it. "Go and let's get the ninety-million trunks you've got crammed into the boot, and tell those boys to stop dithering and come and give their host a proper welcome."

Mikaela couldn't resist that tone of voice; she saluted smartly, rapping out a "Ma'am, yes Ma'am!" And she made a face at her before leaning in to give her a one-armed hug. The woman grunted, returning the gesture somewhat stiffly. "Damn straight. Now quit being such a nancy and let's go bring your things in." And she smoothed one hand over her already immaculately tied-back hair absently, shaking off her momentary awkwardness. The woman never had been comfortable with physical shows of affection.

"Captain!" Sam waved enthusiastically from behind Bumblebee's open trunk. He already had his duffel bag in one hand, and he reached back in to haul out Mikaela's more formal luggage case. As he struggled with it, giving out the appropriate manly grunts and swears, the Captain came around and pulled it the rest of the way out one-handed, barely straining herself. Sam scowled at her. The Captain just rolled her eyes and turned to nod to Bumblebee, still idling in alt mode. "Autobot Bumblebee, an honor to see you again."

The Autobot let out an impatient sputter and spat the rest of the bags out at Sam, who swore extensively and ducked. Bumblebee wasted no time in transforming into his root mode, rising to his pedes to greet her properly. "Cashhh-aptain Starling, it is an honor to be-ee here," his real voice warbled as he responded in kind. She looked steadily back at him, not even blinking as he gave her a salute, this one far more formal than Mikaela's. Captain Starling touched her fingers to her forehead in a brief but no less serious gesture. Looking back down, she nodded to the teens, and scooped up a couple more pieces of luggage. "Come on, kiddies, get your gear and follow me."

She spoke to Bumblebee as they made their way back up the driveway. "The garage is around back, in the cliffs. We'll meet you there shortly, after I've gotten these two settled in." Bee hummed happily, waving them off, and cut through the scrub that covered the desert floor. As he disappeared around the hill, Mikaela saw that her surfboard was still strapped to his back, and bit back a grin. Trust him to know what was _really_ important.

Sam spoke up. "Captain? Listen, thanks for putting us up –"

"More like putting up _with_ – "

"That too. Thanks for putting up with us uneducated, useless, vacationing civilians and letting us crash at your awesome beachside pad."

Starling just shook her head, the short ponytail at the crown of her skull flicking with the motion. She lead the way inside the cool, quiet house, guiding them through a spacious kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances and smooth, dark counter tops. An open doorway was tucked into a far corner of the kitchen, which led to a wide, shallow set of stairs. They started the trek up, the Captain still carrying the pieces of luggage as if they weighed no more than pillows. "Mikaela, we've discussed this. You _must_ find a muzzle for that boy. I won't listen to his prattle the entire time he's here."

"I've got it covered, Captain. I will keep his mouth very occupied while we're here. You won't hear a peep out of him."

"Remind me to always knock, then."

"Mik- _ae_ -la!"

" _Sam_."

"I knew I should have made the two of you stay out in the garage. And how many times must I remind you to call me Alexis?"


	4. The Formula for Success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes vacation really is all its cracked up to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is from Arthur Rubinstein; the song used is © Matt Nathanson.

_"There is no formula for success except perhaps an unconditional acceptance of life and what it brings."_

The Captain remained somewhat elusive during their stay, preferring the solitude of her study over the three boisterous youngsters. She claimed it was better for her back if she kept hard labor to a minimum, despite her blatant display of health the day of their arrival. A cracked spine was nothing to sneer at, Mikaela knew, but the truth was that Alexis just wasn’t the social type. This didn’t stop Sam from pestering her relentlessly, attempting to drag her outside to work on sand sculptures and teach them poker. She put up with it, to an extent, but she had grown up with three older brothers and knew how to deal with irritating man-children.

For her part, Mikaela was content to see her at meals and in passing, letting the woman have her space. Alexis would venture out every so often, to catch a part of whatever show they happened to be watching, or to tell them to move it outside. Despite her obvious fascination with Bumblebee, whom she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of, she conversed with him rarely, only interacting with him if he happened to be around Mikaela and Sam. Mikaela didn’t let it bother her much; the woman wasn’t like most adults she came into contact with, and when she was around, she treated them more like regular housemates than the visiting guests they were.

Which meant chores, of course. She woke up Mikaela about six one morning so she could take out last night’s trash, and she had Sam in the kitchen constantly, claiming that a man needed to know how to put away his own dishes. When she discovered that Mikaela never folded her clothes, just threw them in the closet, she sat the girl down and made her go through every piece of clothing she had brought with her.

She also made sure that they had their beds neatly made and tucked in just so every morning. Sam, having dealt with his mother his entire life, resigned himself to the Captain’s quirks early on; Mikaela had looked at the list of tasks that was posted on the wall opposite the stairwell, and started laughing. She’d done so right up until Alexis took them by the elbows and escorted them back upstairs, to the woman’s bedroom. She took out a British crown, and bounced it off her immaculately dressed bed. It shot straight back into her hand where it hovered above the sheets, waiting for the coin.

“I expect _quality_ work, if not quantity. The world doesn’t stop turning simply because you are on vacation. The toast will still burn, and you _will_ still trip and fall down the stairs if you leave your pile of unwashed clothes by them.”

Sam took in the somewhat sour expression she wore, and snickered. “Had personal experience with that, huh?”

The Captain sniffed. “Well, I wasn’t always perfect.”

* * *

So the days went. Despite the initial shock of having to work through their vacation, Mikaela eased into the routine quickly. Alexis was right, she realized. They weren’t so much chores as clean living. And it was a nice change, having her things organized and laid out to where she could actually find them.

She was sitting up on her bed, an old towel laid beneath her, painting her toenails. Bumblebee watched from the window, being just barely tall enough to see into the second-story bedroom. The house was more squat than recent models, and sat lower to the ground. He was exclaiming over the immaculate strokes she made as she lacquered up her nails with Fire Engine Red, wishing he could work with something so tiny. She promised that when it came time to redo them, she’d let him have a go at it, which made him squeak happily.

When she was finished, she sat the bottle in her nightstand and went to settle herself down on the windowsill, letting Bumblebee blow air from his vents to help them dry faster. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply; engine grease, nail polish and warm metal bled together, creating an almost surreal atmosphere. She peeked through her lashes at Bumblebee, who seemed perfectly content to be sitting there, helping her dry her nails. His own optics were shuttered, mirroring her expression, and he had a forearm propped up against the side of the house, leaning into it lazily.

Something about his posture made her frown; it was just so casual and _human_. Was this something universal, or did they pick up body language the same way as English, through the Internet? She’d seen Ratchet settle his hands on his hips countless times as he was berating someone, and Optimus had a penchant for rubbing his face when he was frustrated. It made it easier to see them behaving so normally – so like them. Perhaps they expressed things differently on Cybertron, but whatever the effect, she felt it came from the same place – they had emotions and thoughts, just like any sentient being.

Would Barricade be the same, or would he simply be an empty shell, waiting for someone to give him an order, like any other machine? It was something that troubled her, more than she cared to admit. Ratchet was being curiously tight-lipped about the whole thing, which didn’t help.

Hell. She was supposed to be on _vacation_ from work, not dwelling on it. With a huff, she pulled herself into an upright position and stretched, shaking away her unsettling thoughts. Beside her, Bumblebee chirped and righted himself as well. They inspected her nails, Mikaela critically, the bot more curiously. She’d slap an overcoat on later, she decided, and wouldn’t worry about it in the meantime.

A call from Sam turned Bumblebee’s attention from her, and he disappeared from her line of sight, headed towards the beach. Eventually he came back to her, and gestured to her. “Wwwant a ride, pretty lady?” She laughed, and scooped her backpack up from its corner. Delicately she stepped into his waiting hands, both of them taking care to avoid her still sticky nails.

There was a beach towel and umbrella waiting for her, and Bumblebee let her get comfortable before heading over to Sam, who sat crouched a ways down the spit of sand. Surrounding him were buckets and tins of varying sizes, as well as trowels and shovels all lined up neatly. Her brows rose at the two of them, and Sam gestured to her. She held up a foot and wriggled her toes at him in response. As she laid back, sunglasses perched on her nose, she heard Bumblebee informing Sam that she probably wouldn’t be happy if she had to redo her nails because she got sand on them. Smiling to herself – her boys were so thoughtful – she closed her eyes, and let the heat and their voices lull her into sleep.

* * *

_There’s a word for this,_ Mikaela thought drowsily as she woke up. She leafed through her mental dictionary, discarding the usual _awesome_ and _sweet_ for something a little more…profound. Absently she rubbed at her palm as she laboriously worked her way through years of memorized English vocabulary sets.

The sun soared above her, reflecting off the water and prying beneath her closed eyelids. A little ways down, she could hear sand shifting and squealing as Bumblebee and Sam built what was probably the world’s first alien-constructed sand castle…wait. She frowned to herself, letting her head loll towards the noise. There was something wrong with that thought.

_Pyramids_ , her groggy mind whispered. Right, those. She made a mental note to ask Bee if they’d had anything to do with that. Maybe Miles was right after all. Her train of thought drifted after that, letting it take her deeper into a somnambular state. She forgot what she had been doing a few seconds ago, before alien artifacts interrupted her thought process. A yawn crept up on her, making her jaw crack. She stretched languorously, and then made herself roll over till she could flop onto her belly, turning her head so she could watch the two friends work. At first she blinked, trying to get the sunspots out of her eyes, not really believing what she saw. With a grunt, she pulled herself upright, staring.

Sam was balanced on Bumblebee’s shoulders, his arms wrapped around a huge metal tub that he struggled to pull off of a sandy turret. One of Bee’s hands steadied Sam, wrapping around his torso even as his other one finished sculpting out a shallow window in another tower. The tallest rampart soared high above the Autobot’s doorwings, casting the two in shadow as they labored away in the summer heat. Most of the other towers look finished, complete with delicate spires, railed balconies and great Primus above, it looked like there was a courtyard somewhere in there, lost in the maze of doorways, stairwells and sandy, sculpted shrubbery. No moat, but they were probably saving that for last.

Just how long _had_ she been asleep, anyway?

Bumblebee saw her before Sam, and nearly unseated him, he waved so exuberantly. Sam clung precariously to the tub that still sat upon the tower, teetering dangerously before Bee caught him again. Mikaela let out a disbelieving laugh, finally hauling herself to her feet, stretching out her legs and brushing the sand off her limbs. She ambled towards them, lacing her hands behind her head, taking in the sight. She might actually be able to fit into those doorways, if she was on her hands and knees. Sam finally spotted her, and waved just as enthusiastically, grinning his little-boy grin and not looking a bit embarrassed.

Mikaela came to a halt just in front of the main entrance, moving to put her hands on her hips and eying them speculatively through her shades. “Sam Witwicky, you’ve got a giant metal man from outer space for a best friend, and out of the million and two things you could be doing, you’ve got him doing _arts and crafts_?”

“Not entirely, no. We just wanted to see how high we could get it at first…it’s not my fault Bee’s got an artistic streak.”

Her shoulders shook with laughter. “Dignity, thy name is not Sam. But…this _is_ pretty damn awesome.”

Bumblebee whistled in agreement.

She pursed her lips. “So…can I go in yet?”

The Autobot shook his head, making Sam squeak and cling to him. “Nnn-not yet, please. It still nnneeds to dry.”

Mikaela pretended to pout for a minute, before turning on her heel and marching back to her little oasis. She ransacked her backpack, and when she found what she was looking for, she made her way back towards them, object in hand. She held it up. “For posterity. And history. You haven’t by any chance done this before, have you, Bumblebee?”

The mech in question cocked his head, optics blinking artlessly. Sam looked confused. With a roll of her eyes, Mikaela held up her find, deciding she didn’t really need to know. When he saw what she was doing, Sam waggled his finger at her. “You know what the Major said! What Optimus said! No photos. Too much digital proof of the Cybertronians’ existence floating around, waiting to be hacked –“

That’s why I brought Gramma’s Polaroid.”  She shook it at him.

Sam paused, and looked at Bee. Bee looked back at Sam. Both shrugged. “For posterity.”

She aimed and fired.

She finally had a word she could use, one she didn’t find use for too often. _Perfect._

* * *

Out here, you could see for miles into the atmosphere, past the Earth’s lights and into the heart of the Milky Way. The stars were an endless vaulted ceiling, spreading across the sky and into the ocean. The night air felt like silk and warm fingers brushing her cheek as she meandered down the steps that led from the back of the house to the long stretch of beach. The boys were out here somewhere, she knew; she’d seen Sam drift off after he’d cleaned up dinner, in the direction of the garage and Bumblebee. As she hit the sand, she could just barely hear the lull of two voices above the quiet roar of the waves, and headed towards them.

There were rocky outcrops that jutted out from the wall of the cliffs, trailing off into the waves to create tidal pools and other little fascinating worlds that stood apart from the rest of the sea. She pulled herself over a small hill, and there they were – or at least Bumblebee was; she could hear Sam’s voice, but he was still hidden from sight. A little ways past the yellow bot stood their finished palace, looking grand and a little unearthly in the starlight. It should be dry by now, she thought to herself with a small smile. Tomorrow she’d make them give her the grand tour.

Their voices drifted towards her on the breeze. “So you’ve seriously never had a real vacation before? Dude, we need to have a talk with the boss bot. You guys need some downtime every once in a while, you know? Not just _not fighting_ , but…doing other activities that have nothing to do with fighting.”

“Wwwe do have recreational periods, Sam. On the Ark, we even had…what you would call a rec room. There were consoles for games of-of strategy and outcome estimationnn, tables and chairs _our size_ ,” and she could _feel_ the wistful expression he wore at this, “refreshment – if-f-f you recall the two mechs of which I’ve spoken before, the Twins – Sideswipe had some of the meanest high g-rrr-rade you’ll ever have the misfortune to taste, if you had the right connections.”

“You mean _moonshine_?” Sam sounded delighted at the idea. “You guys made your own illegal alcohol?” Bumblebee _whrrred_ in affirmation, his eyes bright. “Dude, I cannot wait to meet those two.”

Bee’s expression changed just a little, enough for Mikaela to know that something was amiss. He turned away from what was assumedly Sam on the other side of him, which caused his optic to meet Mikaela’s. His own widened, and his face lit up again in a more familiar fashion. “Mickey!” He crowed. She smiled back at him, and made the short trek down the rocks to meet them. He didn’t rise, but extended one giant hand towards her, and she took a finger, letting him guide her over to Sam. Her boyfriend beamed at her, curly hair mussed and cheeks glowing, whether from his own exuberance, or from the earlier sun, she couldn’t tell.

She sat herself down in front of Sam, facing the two of them. Letting her weight settle on her hands behind her, she craned her neck up to get a better look at Bumblebee. You couldn’t tell that something had been bothering him just a few seconds ago, but she remembered. “So…vacay’s not really a Cybertronian thing, huh?”

Again that expression crossed his face, as if he were recalling something fondly and with pain all at once. “You know, I asked Jazz that once. He would know more than I would about Cybertronian culture, so he was the mech to go to if you wanted to find out anything involving the arts and societal mores of our species.

I am too new to remember the old Cybertron…the Golden Age.” And here his voice caught, as if he were hanging onto those words and holding them aloft in reverence. Something inside Mikaela shivered, and she pulled her arms in to rub at the goosebumps that rose there. In front of her, Sam eyes were riveted to Bumblebee’s face, a bemused expression puckering his brows. She wondered if they had ever talked about this before, if Sam had ever bothered asking. Somehow she doubted it, judging from the look his face held. She shook her head mentally. _Boys._

Finally Bumblebee continued, his voice smoothing out the best it could. “Did you know, there used to be ranks of nobility on Cybertron? Much like yours, here. There were grand palaces, and dancing, and fêtes every night…Jazz always said it was just a thousand of the most worthless bots flitting around like they had something under their olfactory sensors.” Despite the jibe, there was a certain wistful note to it that she couldn’t ignore.

“There’s a few that are still online…at least as far as I’ve heard. Mirage was with us for a while, before Jazz found a mission for him. He’s been gone a long…a long time. Hound went with him, of course. Those two are –what’s that phrase--joined at the knee?” His tone was musing, as if he were only thinking out loud now. “Hound was a former member of the Guard, like Jazz. They’re good trackers, the both of them; though I think Hound enjoys the hunt a little more. Jazz was always a look-you-in-the-optics-and-smile-while-he’s-lying type of mech. A good one, though. You’ll never meet a bot more dedicated to Prime. Except maybe Ironhide or Ratchet. Now, _those_ two…”

It took Mikaela a minute to put her finger on what was different. Then it hit her: he hadn’t stuttered. Not once.

Much later, she found herself with her arms around her legs, a cheek pressed to her knee as she took in the lively cadence of Bumblebee’s voice. He was explaining exactly _why_ Sideswipe and Sunstreaker avoided the medbay at all costs. She thought that maybe Sideswipe and Sam would get on famously, if they were still alive.

No one knew what had happened to those two, it seemed. Like many other soldiers in this war, they had taken up their own mission. Last anyone heard, Sideswipe had been headed to a seldom-traveled part of the ‘verse, looking into rumors of a Decepticon camp. They hadn’t known if Sunstreaker had been with him, though Bumblebee was certain he was – they were twins, he said, something rare and special. One spark, housed in two different bodies. Where one went, the other would, too.

It was fascinating, learning about Bumblebee’s comrades. He spoke of them as if he’d only seen them yesterday, which, knowing the huge difference in their biological clocks, might make it feel that way to him. But it might also just be Bumblebee himself: Mikaela could hear it in his voice, the hope and the confidence in his friends, that they were still alive somewhere out there, trying to find their way home. He was just that kind of mech, to believe in such things; the war had never been able to strip him of that. Mikaela was grateful for it. It made her wish he had been able to live in the time he talked of so reverently – an age of peace and love, prosperity and pursuit of knowledge. A chill came over her then, a distant thought trying to break through, but she disregarded it. Now was not the time to be getting technical. She turned her attention back to her best friends.

Sam had found a comfortable spot up against Bumblebee’s thigh, leaning into the warm, living metal. His lids were at half-mast, but Mikaela could still make out the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He was listening intently, she knew. The whole time Bumblebee had been talking, Sam had inched steadily closer to his friend, until he found his current place beside him. She could see Bumblebee’s hand at Sam’s back, tapping a steady, soft rhythm against his spine. She couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. The bot probably didn’t even realize he was doing it; it was an absentminded, comforting motion, whether for himself or for his friend she couldn’t tell.

Finally she found that she had to stretch or suffer a sore back in the morning. She hauled herself up, dusting away the grit that had accumulated on her legs and shorts. Both Sam and Bumblebee watched her as she proceeded to unkink herself, pushing at the small of her back and arching to break the pressure that had accumulated there. When she turned back, Sam was still in his spot by his friend, looking sleepy and thoughtful. She ran a careless hand over her ponytail, tugging at the end of it pensively. She looked up at Bee, but he was silent, his gaze on the distant, star-studded horizon. She thought for a moment, considering his expression. Then, with a slow smile, she offered him her hand. “Hey.”

He glanced down at her hand, blinking at the appendage. She waggled her fingers at him. “Come here.”

Carefully he dislodged Sam from his leg, righting the boy into a sitting position. Sam looked between the two of them, scrubbing at his face. “How about offering _me_ a hand up? I think my legs have gone to sleep.”

She let her smile slide over to him, and he leaned back against the rocks, eyeing her, an answering smile working its way across his sleepy expression. “What are you up to, babe?”

This time she ignored him, and gestured to Bee again. He finally responded, his optics bemused. Delicately, he took her hand in his, his own giant digits dwarfing hers. Mikaela tugged, feeling him follow her. Dust drifted off his frame as he let her take the lead, the tiny particles winking in the soft silver light. Despite the sand and salt and numerous other earthy things that surrounded them, his armor still shone proudly, the moon and stars casting him in brilliant light and velvet shadow. She led him down to the shoreline, past their palace made of crystals and starlight, and raised their arms until she could walk beneath his, slowly turning until she had made a full revolution.

She saw understanding dawn on his face, until his optics shone bright as the moon. He glanced back over his shoulder at the castle, then back down at her. She beamed back up at him, leading him further out until she felt the waves lapping at her bare feet. Still clinging to his hand, she tugged the hem of her tank top and sank into a curtsy, stumbling a little in the wet, crumbling sand. Laughing, she righted herself and pulled at him. “Now you.”

“Now what?”

“Bow and ask me to dance, mister.”

“Ahh.” He didn’t hesitate, and swept into an exaggerated bow over her hand, warm forehead brushing against the back of it. “Beautiful lady, would you do me the great honor of dancing with me tonight?”

She would, and did.

She had to show him where to put his hands, and his feet, but once they got themselves sorted out, he followed her as if he’d been doing it his whole life. After a while they switched, Mikaela letting him take the lead. He swept her across the glittering sand, moving her into patterns she wasn’t familiar with, but felt natural all the same. Despite the rather distinct difference in their sizes, they made it work; setting a rhythm that seemed to move with the waves at their feet. Soon she became aware of a faint buzzing over the rush of the water, which she realized was Bumblebee’s radio. He was surfing through sound bytes, and after another moment he found one that satisfied him.

_“I miss the sound of your voice;_  
and I miss the rush of your skin;  
and I miss the still of the silence   
as you breathe out and I breathe in – “  
  
Mikaela let her eyes fall closed. He spun her a little bit faster, and she clung to him tighter. When she opened them up again, the moon seemed brighter, the stars not so far away. As she was passed back through the waves, the ocean at her back, she caught Sam’s eyes.

He wasn’t smiling anymore, but his look spoke louder than anything he could have ever said. That feeling, that nameless thing that crept up on her sometimes unawares when she was with him, stared back at her from behind his eyes. She matched him stare for stare, letting him look his fill. She wouldn’t say it if he wouldn’t, but it was there, in everything but words. Even after she and Bumblebee completed their revolution, her back once more to the cliffs, the moment stayed with her.

_“So come on get higher,_  
loosen my lips;  
faith and desire   
And the swing of your hips –“

Then Bumblebee was pulling her into one last spin, drawing the dance to a close – so she thought. Then she saw that Sam had climbed to his feet at last, and Bee was holding her hand out for him to take. He stepped in seamlessly, his bearing for once lacking its usual teenage ungainliness. She spun once more, into the circle of his arms, and let him take the lead. His eyes were as bright as Bumblebee’s, a strange, soft smile unfurling across his face. His fingers interlaced with hers, locking their hands behind her back, keeping her flush against him. Bee stepped back, taking Sam’s place by the cliff. When she glanced back at him, she found his face raised to the stars, optics searching the night sky. The music never stopped.

Then Sam stole her attention once more as he moved them further into the surf. The dance changed, evolving into something slower and deeper. She felt his breath across her face, let his warmth surround her. She didn’t dare close her eyes.

_“If I could walk on water,_  
if I could tell you what’s next;  
make you believe,  
make you forget –“

It was right there, those three words, hanging in the small space between them. She could taste them on her tongue, like something too sweet that made her mouth water. But he didn’t say anything, so neither did she. Instead he squeezed her hands, closing the distance between them to press their foreheads together. Something in her chest tightened, the words threatening to smother her. Still she kept her eyes open, watching him watching her. Her lips parted.

_“Hold on, hold on, hold on…”_

She exhaled, and he kissed her, silencing anything she may have said.

_“Come on, get higher -_  
Come on and get higher -   
Because everything works, love;  
because everything works in your arms.”

* * *

“Sam, has Bumblebee ever told you any of that before?”

There were only two days left now, and it was midmorning. Mikaela had been up since dawn, as usual, unable to sleep more than a few hours at a time. They were in the den, sprawled together on the couch. Sam had his head on one armrest, legs up and tucked into Mikaela’s side. She took up the other armrest, mirroring him. He was gulping down an overflowing ham sandwich, a feat she watched with some trepidation. If any of that monstrosity got onto the leather, Alexis would have both their heads. Then she’d make them do laps. She’d done it before, after Sam got melted chocolate chips all over his sheets.

That woman really didn’t fool around when it came to cleanliness.

Sam studied his sandwich for a moment, as if it would give him the answer he was searching for. Mikaela waited patiently, letting him and his food be. After a bit, he licked a smear of mustard of the side of his thumb, and spoke. “Yeah…sort of. I asked him about something once, but…I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what? What did you ask him?”

“I asked him about girl Cybertronians. Like, if there were any.”

She scowled thoughtfully, the analytical part of her mind taking control and examining the idea from several different angles. “ _Could_ they be female? I mean, maybe there’s a different model of protoform that is supposed to be a counterpart to the models we’re familiar with…or something.”

Sam didn’t respond. When she looked at him, he was staring once more into his sandwich, a strange look on his face. She nudged him with her foot. “Forty-two.”

“Eh?”

“The answer you’re looking for. If that sandwich could talk, it would tell you it’s forty-two.”

He laughed despite himself, his expression clearing a little. “No, it’s just…what he told me. About them.”

Mikaela straightened immediately, watching him. “So they do exist? I’ve never actually brought it up with Ratchet, you know. I figured if it were important, he’d tell me. So what did Bee say?”

Sam sat up finally, swinging his legs down to the floor. With a sigh, he set his limp sandwich on the coffee table, and braced his elbows on his knees. As he sat there in silence, Mikaela’s stomach slowly knotted. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

“They’re _gone_ , Mikaela. Completely, totally wiped out of existence.”

“W _hat?_ How is that possible? What in God’s name could possibly - _”_

And then she snapped her jaw shut, and closed her eyes. She already knew.

“Megatron. It was Megatron. Mikaela, he _slaughtered_ them. He – he rounded them up like _cattle_ \- ” he had to stop and swallow past the lump in his throat, then continued. “And you know why? You know what he said, the excuse he gave?”

She had a sinking feeling she did.

“’They’re weak, useless creatures that do nothing to further the progress of our species. They’re worthless and distracting, and I will not have them as soldiers. I will not have them at all.’ “

Her eyes burned, and angrily she palmed the tears away. Sam’s face was drawn, shadows creasing his normally cheerful countenance. “Bumblebee was there. He saw it happen. He saw his own friends abused, tortured and murdered right in front of him, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. None of them could.”

With every new story she heard, with every atrocity that was added to the list, she hated that monster _that_ much more. Despite her fears, despite the pain that came with knowing what Sam had done to survive, she was still glad he had done it. If it meant that the universe was just a little bit safer because of it, then so be it. She wished Megatron death a thousand times over, each one more excruciating and prolonged than the last.

Sam read her expression easily, and his face softened. “Hey. Stop it. No brooding on our vacation, remember? That’s the law, and if I have to enforce it, I will.” And he leaned into kiss her, distracting her for a time.

But she still remembered the look on Bumblebee’s face as he searched the heavens for someone who would never return to him. It made her heart ache.

* * *

Two hours later Alexis found them back out on the beach, where Mikaela was being thoroughly distracted by a tour of the sand castle. The Captain came to an abrupt halt when the palace came into view, and her brows shot up. Sam ambled over to her, and swept his arm out in a grand gesture. “Welcome, welcome! Are you here for the grand tour?” And before she could protest, he’d linked their arms and began escorting her rather forcefully to the entrance. She balked, digging in her heels. Sam tugged in vain at her, but she crossed her arms, eyeballing the sand castle inches from her nose.

“That doesn’t look very stable.”

“Hey! This project was conducted by none other than our very own, multi-talented, multi-gadgeted Bumblebee! He’ll tell you it’s safe, won’t you, Bee? Go on, tell her.”

Bumblebee whistled enthusiastically from his position on the far side of the castle. Alexis rolled her eyes, and made to duck beneath the entrance. Sam stopped her before she could disappear, however. “There _is_ a ten-dollar entrance fee. Did I forget to mention that?”

Alexis made a noise back in her throat. “Sam. I own this beach.”

“So?”

“So, this is my property. This is my ruddy sand, so that makes _this_ my castle by default.”

“Ok, how about a construction fee?”

Alexis paused, and narrowed her eyes at the boy. Then she turned to Bumblebee, who was watching them with an air of bemusement. “Don’t tell me _you’re_ hard up for cash.” The Autobot held his hands out in a defensive gesture, chirping.

“Bloody…why I even bother asking…” They heard her mutter as she ducked into the castle.

A while later her shout came from somewhere in the middle of it all. “Oi! The Major called just a bit ago; said he had some news. You lot interested?”

Mikaela, who had come out the other side just minutes before, sat up. “What kind of news? Did they finally fire Simmons?”

The Captain gave a snort. “Nothing that fantastic. Said they’d finally gotten the go-ahead to start relocating, is all.”

Bumblebee gave a piercing whistle, and everyone winced. Making a face at his friend, Sam looked to Mikaela, and they nodded at each other. Scrambling, they dove to locate the Captain and pull her out of the structure, to talk to her face-to-face.

She smirked when she saw their expressions. “Thought that might peak your interest.”

Even as she questioned the Captain, Mikaela noticed Bumblebee go still, and look off into the distance. He was most likely contacting the others. Why hadn’t they informed him first? But Alexis was talking, so she turned her attention back to her.

“They’ve finally got their hands on a piece of land off the coast, not too far from here, actually. Natives call it Diego Garcia, but the island itself isn’t occupied. From the sound of things, your government had to cut a few deals, make a few promises to the President of Mexico to get it. There’s fresh water, and they’re already drawing up shipping plans for food and other supplies for the troops.”

Mikaela’s head spun with the implications. She barged past Sam’s inquiries, asking the question that plagued her. “Did he mention Ratchet’s plans? What’s he going to do with Barricade?”

Both Sam and Alexis paused to look at her. The pilot’s tone was indecipherable as she replied. “The Major wanted the two of you to know…that Optimus Prime says to stay in school. There’s no need to uproot yourselves on their behalf.”

The girl’s heart leapt to her throat, then plummeted just as abruptly down to her toes. “No _way_.”

“He says you’ve assisted as much as you’re able –“

“But I’m not _done_!”

“Mikaela.” This was Sam. She turned to him, her face pinched in desperation. “Hey. Hey, look. Ratchet’s not going to cut you out of the project just like that. Maybe you could, I dunno, use Skype or something, work through video. Lots of –“

“Sam. I’m a mechanic. I have to use my _hands_ , I need to do it _myself_.”

“I get that, but, you know, doctors and stuff do this sort of thing all the time; they just tell someone else what to do and that person does it.”

Mikaela let loose a cry of frustration, which made Bumblebee finally drop his call and pay attention to the humans beside him. He attempted a soft, querying whistle, but Mikaela was too incensed to hear him. She barreled over Sam’s words with the tact of a bulldozer, gesturing violently. “No, _no_. I have worked too hard for this to just _stop_ now. This is my thing. Am I not allowed to have a thing, Sam? Am I not allowed to have goals, have a purpose, be _fucking useful_ –“

“Mikaela, stand _down_.”

Never before had Captain Starling raised her voice to her, and the severity of her tone came like a backhand to her face. Both Mikaela and Sam physically flinched away, the girl’s mouth sealing itself shut. Bumblebee had gone quiet the minute Mikaela had began to rant, and he now stood silent and still before the Captain’s anger.

The Captain’s mouth was flat, the set of her jaw uncompromising. She shoved her face into Mikaela’s, and it took everything in her to stand still and not back away. Instead she forced herself to meet the Captain’s eyes, and let her arms tuck themselves across her chest in a defensive gesture.

“Are you quite done venting your spleen, your Majesty?”

Mikeala rolled her shoulders in irritation. “No.” She grit out, and promptly bit her tongue as she watched the Captain’s brows snap together. “But,” she added quickly, “I’ll let you go first.”

They stood nose to nose for another moment, the Captain looming above her like a bird of prey. Finally, Starling leaned back and let her breath escape her in a hiss. “Damn straight you will, Princess.”

Mikaela wisely chewed on her tongue instead of responding.

Starling’s shoulders unwound, and she recovered from her aggressive stance to put a hand on her hip. “I _was_ going to finish up by telling you that Ratchet expects you to be in front of the computer at 2100 tonight, and not a jot after. He needs to go over your scheduling, so that you can help him finish your Frankenstein.”

Beside her, Sam made a choked noise in the back of his throat, but before he could speak, Mikaela let loose a whoop and threw her arms in the air. “ _Ha_! I _knew_ he wasn’t going to ditch me!”

“But,” Sam finally got a word in, “I thought you said that Optimus said – “

“Yes, well, that’s what Optimus Prime says. He and Ratchet seem to have different opinions on the subject.”

Bumblebee finally spoke up, softly. “He w-will not stop you from coming, iiiiif that is what you want-t-t.” His voice cracked more than usual, and his posture was of one defeated; he stared at Sam for a moment, before nodding to the humans. “Iiii will talk to them, and sssee what is be-ee-ing arranged.” And he took off down the beach, turning the corner and out of sight into the garage.

Sam blinked at the spot where Bumblebee had been, frowning. Then he rolled his eyes back towards the Captain, and huffed. “Well…goodbye, normal.”

Starling snorted. “You consider yourself normal, do you?” They turned as a group, and Mikaela shot ahead of them to run up the steps, exuberance in the swish of her ponytail and the pounding of her feet. Behind her, Sam and Alexis came at a more sedate pace.

“Hey, I am the _Mayor_ of Normalville, USA. Got two cars in the garage and a white picket fence…even though one of them’s an alien and the fence is mostly metaphorical…”

The Captain groaned. “Forget I mentioned it.”

* * *

It wasn’t until much later that night that Mikaela discovered the Major’s true reason for calling. She couldn’t sleep for the adrenaline still pumping through her, making her fingertips tingle and her head light. She stepped outside onto the back porch, making an attempt to clear her thoughts with the salty ocean air.

She wandered down the uneven steps that took her towards the shore, not expecting to hear anything other than the rhythmic roar of the tide. Sam had actually crashed after dinner, claiming that he’d had enough excitement for one week and wanted to get one more uninterrupted night’s sleep. Mikaela was slightly put off by this; he hadn’t even waited to hear what Ratchet had to say, instead disappearing upstairs as soon as he’d cleared the table. She tried to shake it off; Sam could be prickly if you gave him too many surprises at once.

As she hit the beach, once more there came a murmur over the ocean’s waves. Cocking her head, she ventured off in search of the voices. The sounds took her around the cove that hid the entrance to the garage, from where she could see light spilling onto the sand. Did Sam get up and sneak out without her knowing? Frowning thoughtfully, she took a few more steps until she had crossed the uneven ground that separated her from the outer wall of the garage.

_“…rather sneaky of you Autobots. More like those Decepticons you hate so much.”_

The Captain’s voice brought Mikaela up short. She hadn’t even realized Alexis had left the house, much less came down here.

_“I - do not hate them. Not the way-ay you mean. It was at the req-q-quest of Major Lennox that I came here, rrrregardless, not Optimus –“_

_“Don’t be coy. Optimus Prime may not have officiated the order, but I’ll be you my plane it was his idea in the first place.”_

There was something in the Captain’s voice that made the greeting in Mikaela’s throat die. It held a quality of irony to it that made it sound as if she were mocking Bumblebee, albeit subtly. Mikaela’s brows drew down, and almost unconsciously she held her breath as she crept closer. What on Earth were those two talking about, anyway?

_“Perrrhaps. We can’t be too careful, these-these days. Not even the sssoldier that guarded Sam’s life a-a-at the Battle of Mission City is ex-shhh-empt from scrutiny.”_

_“So do I pose a threat, or don’t I? Speak_ clearly _, Autobot Bumblebee. I’m tired of nuances and hidden agendas.”_

_She does sound tired,_ Mikaela realized. As if a weight had been thrust upon her that she bore with ill grace.

With the thought came understanding. Her stomach sank as she beheld the implications of their speech. They were discussing their current visit, and all of the _hidden agendas_ that had brought them here. Optimus clearly wanted to keep an eye on her, since she was well on her way to full recovery after the events that had taken place nearly a year prior.

_That must mean they’re ready to start recruiting._ The Captain’s promotion wasn’t just an honorary gesture; with it came a position within N.E.S.T., and all that implied. She had seen much of the Autobots – and the Decepticons – during the battle, and after she had woken from her coma. There were disclosure papers to sign, secrets to keep, technology that had to be kept from the people that would misuse it. It made sense to bring in a soldier that had previous experience with the Autobots, if only to keep eyes on them should they be approached, or if they decided they didn’t want to keep quiet anymore.

Mikaela must have made a noise, or maybe Bumblebee had alerted her, but whatever the reason Alexis interrupted herself to call out to the girl. “Well? Quit lurking and get your arse in here.” Her tone held an echo of the stern reprimand she had handed out to her earlier, and with a grimace Mikaela obeyed.

She ducked in through the lowered garage door, and stepped into the light. Despite herself she could feel the cold sweat of embarrassment break out at her temples, and she couldn’t meet the Captain’s eyes. Instead she settled for Bumblebee’s, which was slightly less difficult. He cocked a brow ridge at her in question, and she shrugged abashedly. “Didn’t actually mean to do that, sorry. I thought it might be you and Sam out here.”

The Captain grunted. “Boy’s out cold; I think he might have overloaded on information today.” Bumblebee chirped in agreement.

When Alexis made no attempt to chastise her further, Mikaela relaxed a bit. With a sigh, she flopped against a tool rack, letting the familiar smells of grease and old leather comfort her. “I guess.” She shifted, her thoughts taking her to uncomfortable places. “I just don’t get why he’s so against _change_. Y’know?” She waved a hand for emphasis, scowling. “It’s like the second things start to shift, he loses his sea legs and tries to dive for dry land.”

Bumblebee settled himself down across from Mikaela, waiting for her to finish. Gently he reached out to touch her chin, tilting her face up to his. “It’s natural to feel fear in the face of change.” He shook his head. “I know if I hadn’t had Optimus and the others out there waiting for me, I would have been a lot more scared than I was when I first came here. And you humans are so _tiny_. So strange for someone like me to be afraid of you.”

Mikaela placed her hand over his digit, smiling a little. “Thanks. It’s a little comforting to know that the big robot aliens are afraid of the squishy organics.”

His optics crinkled in mirth. “Just don’t tell Ironhide I said that.”

She laughed and patted him. “Cross my heart.”

Behind them, all but forgotten, Alexis snorted. “Right, enough cuddling. Off to bed with you; _apparently_ your little vacation is being cut short, so you need to pack in the hours while you can.”

The girl rolled her eyes at the Captain. “Doesn’t that include you, too?”

“Hardly. I’m trained to withstand up to over ninety-six hours of wakefulness, should the need arise. I think I’ll manage.”

Mikaela stared at the Captain, wondering if she was joking; the woman’s face remained perfectly stoic. After a minute, the girl shook her head. “You know…you’re kind of a pompous jerk.”

That made Alexis smile, rather dryly. “Well, I was raised by the most pompous of all jerks, so remind me to let him know he was successful.”

The girl couldn’t help it; she smirked. “You know, you’re really good at segue ways. Go on,” she flapped her free hand at the Captain, “don’t let me keep you from your oh-so-secret conversation about working for the Autobots.”

The Captain’s smile twisted. “Nosy little chit, aren’t you.”

“Hey, it’s not like we weren’t going to find out anyway. Though you could have said something sooner,” she turned to Bumblebee, scolding him. The bot in question shrugged haplessly, glancing between the two females.

“N-not my choice, but since you knnnow now…” He looked back down at the Captain, brightening a little. “How do you feel about car-carpooling?”


	5. In Transit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was as if the treads of her bike were made to grip this exact stretch of pavement, the teeth and tarmac interlinking like the cogs of a watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding a little clarity to the end of the last chapter: Alexis took part in the Battle of Mission City, watching Sam’s back and becoming grievously wounded as a result. After she recovered, she was handed a promotion and a position within the newly formed N.E.S.T., with the stipulation that she keep her mouth shut. Basically they pulled a Godfather on her. She’s seen things she had no business seeing, much like the Marines, and now they want to keep a close eye on her and make use of her abilities at the same time.  
> The movie-AU is being worked on, and will only be a handful of chapters. So go check out “Against the Darkening Sky,” if you want some more TF action from this ‘verse. The quote is by Anatole France.

_All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves. We must die to one life before we can enter another._  
  
In the end Captain Starling drove herself up the coast, Bumblebee and his humans in tow behind her. Mikaela spent a good part of the trip watching the Captain’s old blue Fiat veer into the oncoming lane, blatantly disregarding the ‘no passing’ zones and other traffic. After the fourth enraged driver roared past them, blasting their horn and screaming obscenities out the window, she decided to give the older woman a call.

She tucked the cell into the crook of her shoulder, sitting sideways so she could fit her feet into Sam’s lap. “You do remember you’re in America, right? Land of the free, home of the yardstick?”

Mikaela swore she heard Alexis mutter something about ‘barbarians that don’t even use the bleeding metric system.’ She smirked to herself. “Just checking.”

Sam said something then, but it was lost beneath the roar of the wind coming through the open windows. “Hang on a sec.” She put a hand over the mouthpiece, and he repeated himself. Laughing, she passed on the message. “Sam wants you to know that if the five-O gets you, consider yourself ditched.”

“ _They can try._ _This baby’s got moves their ickle caddies can only dream about.”_

Bumblebee, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping, let loose a snarl from his mufflers that Mikaela felt in her teeth. She grinned and leaned forward, eyeing the Fiat ahead of them. “That sounds a lot like a challenge, Captain.”

Sam shot her a Look, moving to pat the steering wheel. “Now, guys, remember what the Major said – “

And then the breath was knocked out of him as the Autobot lurched forward, rubber burning as he pulled up beside the Fiat. Mikaela squealed and clung to her seatbelt, nearly dropping the phone in the process. Sam sputtered, and Bee laughed. When they turned to look, they found the Captain staring back from above the rims of her aviators. She flashed them a devastating grin, and raised two fingers in a little salute before using them to push up her shades. It was the last thing the three saw before the Fiat vanished from Bee’s side. Sam’s jaw dropped.

“Did she just…?”

“She totally did.”

Sam pounded the wheel. “Oh, it is _on_ , flygirl! C’mon Bee, show her how Autobots drive!”

 

* * *

 

 It was just past noon by the time they arrived back in Tranquility. Alexis didn’t linger, instead making for her new lodgings at N.E.S.T.’s temporary base. When they reached Mikaela’s house, Sam helped her pull her trunks inside, even going so far as to haul them – slowly, agonizingly – up the stairs for her, as if to make up for his abysmal failure before. She kept her laughter hidden with a sweet smile and a kiss on his jaw; she knew he needed his manly moments.

Her Gramma was around here somewhere; her Buick was keeping Bumblebee company in the garage. But the kitchen was empty when she went to grab some iced tea, as was the den. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the door to their cramped back porch was open, and meandered towards it. Voices floated in on the breeze; Mikaela blinked, and faltered. Everything slowed down, then, and she couldn’t feel her feet as they sluggishly carried her to the doorway.

There was a man out there with Jodi, sitting with his back to her. From over his shoulder she could see her Gramma laughing, smiling, leaning forward to touch his arm. Then the older woman looked up, meeting Mikaela’s eyes. The man twisted in his seat.

Jake Banes hadn’t changed much since the last time his daughter had seen him; frequent visits to the State Pen kept them in contact. Dark hair that held a silver sheen was tied back in its ponytail, but his usual stubble was gone. Dark hazel eyes crinkled in a face that had once held a healthy tan, now pale from being kept indoors. He grinned up at her.

Her shriek brought Sam running down the stairs, eyes wild. “Mikaela! What, _what_?! Is your grandma –“

He burst out onto the porch, and nearly bowled over both her and her dad, who were wrapped around each other tightly. As it was he still ran into them, flinging his arms around his girlfriend and, inadvertently, Jake.

Everyone froze. Slowly, the man lifted his head from his daughter’s cheek to stare at the boy, who stared back, eyes wide as saucers.

Mikaela laughed, though it could just as easily been a sob.

 

* * *

 

It was all very abrupt, and Mikaela found herself wishing fervently she had never complained about Sam’s inability to handle change. The irony of it had her wanting to chuck her toolbox across the room.

The three weeks before transfer flew by, of course. Everyone was busy, including Ratchet, so it was left to her to tell herself to suck it up and grow some ball bearings, please. Of the up side, she got to spend that time with her Dad. She wasn’t expected to check in at the base, considering the state of things, and she was mostly grateful. That other, smaller, but no less passionate part of her was left wishing she could bury herself up to her shoulders in Barricade’s innards like always.

It wasn’t _fair._ But the government did not revolve around Mikaela’s personal life, having more important things to worry about – such as relocating the aliens they were secretly harboring to a more secure location. If she’d had more time to prepare…but she couldn’t blame Jodi for that; her Gramma hadn’t any idea of the transfer when they called to give her Jake’s release information. Thinking only to surprise her granddaughter, she had kept quiet, unaware that Mikaela’s work would be whisking her away to an undisclosed place over a hundred miles away.

Sam had understood and bowed out gracefully for the time being, leaving her to her family. A handful of phone calls, mostly involving topics of everything she was going to miss in school, were all she got from him, and they left her feeling vaguely saddened and frustrated in turns. So it was with a heavy heart that Mikaela sat down alone with Jodi and Jake and explained that she couldn’t stay; she had a job to do.

They took it relatively well (for a paranoid elderly woman and an even more paranoid ex-con, anyway). Of course she had to lie. It had been unanimously agreed upon (she didn’t count) that spreading the Autobots’ secret was too risky; she had the suspicion that her father’s colorful background had played a part in this decision. It was totally _not_ cool, but she grit her teeth and consented.

Her Dad was quiet as she explained to him the situation. It was a government-funded operation, she said, dealing with highly-advanced technology that couldn’t be released to the public. She had a contract with them that demanded her utmost discretion. And it was all true…kind of. She adamantly ignored the uneasy feeling in her stomach as she lied to her father’s face. She was sure that he could see right through her; years in prison demanded inbuilt BS radar.

So she told herself to suck it up and grow some ball bearings. It hurt like hell, but she managed it. She had other things to take care of, and if she let this drag out then she’d _never_ get anything done. School was only two weeks away by then, and of course she was scrambling to get all her paperwork in, signing up for the online classes and making sure her Gramma had hers in order, too. But she finally got it done, to the relief of everyone involved. She checked it off her mental list gratefully.

Between the paperwork, the interviews with her (now former) principal, and avoiding subjects with Sam, she spent time with her Dad, cruising the streets on his Monster, filling him in on the changes that had been made the last couple of years. He would eye the various body shops thoughtfully, wondering aloud if he should put the government’s clean slate program to the test. If he had been released normally, his parole would have prevented him from venturing within at least a hundred yards of the shops. He had his daughter, and – to his eternal surprise – his daughter’s boyfriend to thank for that.

She told him what she could – and the alien-free version was, in her opinion, just as extraordinary as the original. She and Sam had both gotten mixed up in politics, and if the government wanted the teenagers’ cooperation, then concessions on both sides would have to be made. Mikaela gladly gave the credit for that particular stipulation to Sam, as was deserved.

Her father was one who understood secrets, and the necessity of them. In no way did that stop him from asking questions. Are you good at what you do? Is your boss a pain in the ass? (She sniggered at that one.) How long’s your contract for?

That last one always made her pause, and he always noticed. His blue eyes got a little narrower every time. _Indefinitely_ , she should say. _A couple of years,_ she always replied. It wasn’t a lie, not really. She knew it would be at least that long. Despite her many reassurances, he didn’t like it. Not at all. He was much like the Witwickys when it came to government affiliation; you could dress it up in roses, but it still came up smelling like crap. 

And she hadn’t even mentioned the Ducati yet. If there was anything that would push Jake over the edge and into the murky waters of Proactive Parenting, it was his other baby. Primus help her.

 

* * *

 

Despite her father’s presence, and Ratchet’s mandates, it took everything in Mikaela to keep away from the warehouse the next few weeks. There were plenty of people more knowledgeable than her working on the relocation; she would only be in the way (so she told herself, and Ratchet was quick to affirm). He commed her once or twice to ascertain her health –was she sleeping, was she eating, was she _breathing_ – and then promptly ignored her, telling her in no uncertain terms that he had enough to deal with there and she that needed to mind her own business. She knew it was just his way of making sure she took care of her own.

It was hard, though, to put her life’s work on the backburner. Throughout the next week she found herself halfway across town several times, on her way to the base. Frustrated, she would pound the wheel and hit the brakes, swearing profusely. They were _so close_. As soon as she got the next few days out the way, she’d be on the fast track to godhood and her very own medic’s license. It was a heady feeling, and the hours couldn’t pass by fast enough.

At one point she got a call from Captain Starling (sure, Ratchet, give _everyone_ my comm. frequency. Fragger.). This conversation, too, was succinct and on the dry side. Mostly it involved talk of paperwork, the status of her toolkit, and the general idiocy of the American bureaucratic system. Come to think of it, it was rather like talking to a female Ratchet. That was a terrifying thought – two of the most cynical, OCD-ridden people she’d ever met in the same vicinity of one another. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about.

Sam, of course, was constantly on the edge of her thoughts. Memories of the beach would rear their heads at the most inopportune times, of Sam’s face when Alexis had announced that they were relocating. It gnawed at her, that look. Whenever she would dwell on it, an uneasy feeling would spread through her. She should be doing something about it, but she found that it was easier to talk about Bumblebee, or Mojo, or his work, the grass, anything but what needed to be said. The uneasy feeling settled and became stagnant as the weeks went by.

And what was wrong with Bumblebee? She had never gotten a chance to talk to him, not since his strange behavior at the beach. He had obviously been left in the dark about Diego Garcia; was that it? Was he upset about the move? The questions kept piling up, and she found that she was afraid to ask even one of them. Avoidance was a skill she was quickly embracing.

Time flew, and suddenly one afternoon she was hanging on to Jodi for dear life, tears in her eyes as she muttered a goodbye into her shoulder. Then it was her Dad’s turn, and she repeated the gesture. He backed up, coughing into his fist as she tried to pretend she hadn’t seen the tears in his eyes. Her Gramma cracked her hand towel at them, denouncing the two of them as pansies. It helped.

Then Jake picked up something off the table that she hadn’t noticed before, a small, oblong box wrapped shoddily in…yeah, that was Christmas paper. She stared as he offered it to her, not knowing what to do. He grunted irritably, grabbing one of her hands and shoving the box into it. She stared some more.

“…I’m not supposed to wait for Christmas, am I? Because I do get vacations, you know –“

“Oh, God, girl, just open it.”

She did, and then the tears that she’d been holding valiantly at bay flooded her.

She was holding a brand new, apple red pair of Chuck Taylors. Stars and all.

He coughed again, smoothing one hand across his hair. “I noticed your old ones, ah, gettin’ a bit small. Thought you could use ‘em. You know, if you needed a quick ride back home.” _My ruby slippers. He remembered._

Yeah, okay. She was a pansy. But he was too, so it was alright. She threw her arms around him one more time, for one brief, painful moment not wanting to ever let go. To stay home with her daddy, and have him take her for rides on his motorcycle and have her recite all the pieces to a ’69 Mustang Cobra Jet. Then the moment passed, as they all did, and she smiled and gave him a loud, sloppy kiss on the cheek. He laughed, but didn’t push her away like he usually would.

Mikaela never did ask for the bike; she’d do it over the holidays, or the next time she visited, or – sometime. In any case, something was telling her not to do it. So she let it go, and said her goodbyes.

And then, as she headed down the sidewalk towards where her moped was waiting, Jake called her back. She turned on the spot, expecting some last minute jibe about Sam or to watch her back around government folk. So she was totally unprepared when something flashed in the sunlight as Jake tossed it at her.

She snagged it from the air, and looked down at her prize.

She took off for Sam’s on the Monster, her heart full and a grin stretching her face. She had escaped relatively unscathed, but for the ringing in her ears and a vow, on pain of death, to return it, along with herself, in one piece. It was a promise she was happy to make.

Sam was equally impossible to say goodbye to, in his own way. He and Bumblebee both stood there in his back yard, wringing their hands in tandem. Both of their faces were downcast, but Sam’s mouth had a tightness to it that augmented the feeling in her belly. _No, not now, I can’t do this now,_ she pleaded with him silently. Then he sighed, and tried to smile, doing a better job at it then she would have thought.

“So, ah, you gonna drive to the coast or what?” He eyed the Monster behind her dubiously. “Doesn’t look like it would be too comfortable. I mean, for hours on end. Your end.”

_Thank you_ , a little piece of her said, and she laughed aloud. “Maybe. I might just trade out with Ratch some of the time, to keep my _end_ from chafing.”

That got her a smarmy little grin. “Just making sure your assets are protected.”

Mikaela kissed him then, if only to hide the tears in her eyes. Stupid, to think that his third grade humor could reduce her to this. She leaned to put her mouth to his ear, cupping his jaw. “Sweet boy,” she murmured, “always taking care of me.”

She felt him smile again, the laugh lines around his mouth feathering against her cheek. Mikaela closed her eyes to soak in the warmth that he offered, and slid her arms around his neck. He wrapped his own around her waist, hands hot against her back where they pressed her to him. They stayed that way for a time, and she tried not to count the seconds.

At their side she heard Bumblebee chirp softly. Mikaela lifted her head to smile at him. “Of course you’re getting a hug. Don’t even think about trying to get out of it.”

Sam, however, had other ideas, so she freed one arm to offer it up to Bumblebee. Chittering wordlessly, he ducked his head until his cheek pressed into Mikaela’s hair, and very carefully wrapped his much longer limbs around the two humans. She lifted her head until she was pressing back, reaching up to curl her arm around his.

After a minute, Sam started to shift uneasily. “Um, ok, are we done with the group hug thing? Because I think I can feel my manly points dropping.”

“Way to kill the mood, Sam. Thanks.”

She finally shook herself free from him to give Bumblebee a more proper goodbye. When he started leaking wiper fluid, however, she drew the line. “Alright, you big baby, enough. You wanna make me cry, too?”

“ _Baby don’t hurt me – no more!”_

“Oh my _God,_ don’t you dare. I will turn around and leave _right now_ if you keep playing that.”

He stopped.

An hour or so later found them brushing off the grass stains they had accumulated. Sighing, Mikaela wrapped both boys in her arms one more time, holding them to her as tightly as she could. It was past time she left; dragging this out wasn’t good for anyone, and she’d told Ratchet she’d be there by dark.

Sam caught her as she pulled away, fingers digging into the nape of her neck. He breathed deep against her, and she let him. Finally he loosed his hold, fingers tangling together between them. He set his jaw in that way he had, and the feeling rose again, smothering her.

She tried to head him off. “Sam. Sam.” She got him to look at her, and the words nearly died in her throat. She pushed on. “ _It’s my life_.”

His expressive eyes were bright, and she thought she knew what he would say.

But all he said was, “I know.”

They watched each other for a minute. Finally Mikaela relaxed as the look in his eyes became clear.

He murmured again, “I _know_.” And he squeezed her hands for emphasis.

That ugly, stagnant thing inside her chest lightened just the tiniest bit.

It wasn’t an apology, or a demand for one. It wasn’t an explanation, or an argument, or an accusation. But it would do, for now.

 

* * *

 

 That evening Mikaela checked into the base, only a day away from relocation. She wasn’t allowed near Barricade; Ratchet had her packing up the smaller, handheld equipment that he claimed was too delicate for him to manage. Mikaela knew better; he was giving her busy work. She didn’t care, even though it took her long into the night to finish. It kept her mind off of the more delicate things _she_ didn’t want to manage – her dad, Sam. Between the two of them she had managed to chew her lips raw.

She wasn’t abandoning them. It wasn’t like that, not at all. Was it her fault they decided to spring her dad at this exact point in time? Was it her choice for Sam to stay at home in Tranquility? Well, _no_. It all came down to ethics, and she was going to see this through.

She wasn’t leaving them. They were staying behind.

It was that evening, after lying down on her cot amidst packing peanuts and flattened boxes, that the nightmares came back.

 

* * *

 

The air was thick with the stench of sulfur and charred meat. Like the way Hell might smell, if it were real. Maybe that’s where she was. Around her came a cacophony of noise – roaring and grinding and shaking – all pounding its way into her skull. She couldn’t find her bearings, hair and tears blinding her as she fumbled for something solid to cling to.

From the din she picked out a sharp, hoarse voice – _you’re a soldier now!_ – But Sam’s response was a smear of meaningless sound. The ground shook from impact as a giant strode towards them, roaring, and she whirled away, desperate to escape. But something wouldn’t let her; something kept her feet moving in the opposite direction, toward Sam’s voice. Bee, Bumblebee was hurt - _oh God his legs, where are his legs_ – and she couldn’t run away. She was too terrified.

Something wrapped around her arm, and she threw herself backwards, panicking. Looked up into blazing green eyes - _you’re going the wrong way, girl, safety’s in the other direction_ – and she knew that, but for some reason her mouth wasn’t working. The soldier’s grip tightened, and Mikaela spun out of those grasping hands to run to her friends. Shouting came from behind her, but nothing that made any sense.

 _We’ve got to help him._ She ran past the two young men – only one wasn’t really, he was a giant – towards the abandoned truck. It was familiar beneath her hands, and she ran shaking fingers across it until she found what she needed. Tires squealed, but the sound was lost to the storm around her. She and Sam wrapped Bumblebee up good and tight, vivid blue eyes watching their every move.

_Girl, go on, get out of here!_

_I can’t, I’m not_ leaving _him._

The storm drew in around them, deafening her. _You’re a soldier now._ But no, that wasn’t right. She was just a girl. Just a girl.

A blur of brown and green. _Run, you’ve got to run! I’ll cover you!_ The woman, the green-eyed soldier, grabbed the back of Sam’s jacket, pushing him along. _Go, boy! We don’t have much time!_

Something about this didn’t seem right, but she already knew what she was going to do, as if it had happened before. She saw it all laid out: Bumblebee sighting down his rifle haphazardly, hitting whatever he aimed at. Two figures getting smaller and smaller in the distance; a woman in a green jacket, and a boy in a torn hoodie clutching something precious against his chest. Two giants were chasing them – no – were watching them, guarding them. They disappeared into a building, and all she saw was the back of Bumblebee’s helm, the flash of his rifle muzzle. Metal and asphalt ground together, sparks flying around them.

A resounding _boom_ echoed, and she saw one of the menacing giants collapse slowly, pieces falling around it as if it were melting. Was it over? She looked back down the road; saw nothing but destruction. She knew it wasn’t, even as she hoped. Even before she turned and saw him, she knew it would be Optimus Prime diving headlong down the street, rifle up and battle mask on. Her stomach heaved at the sight, and she squeezed her eyes shut for just a second.

It took an eternity to happen. She didn’t really hear it, but she knew Sam was screaming. She wanted to scream too, wanted to warn the Captain – _the other way, go the_ other way _!_ – but it was too late. The walls had already given way, the explosion knocking her straight off the edge of the white tower. She felt Sam’s horror and helplessness as he lunged for her, but he might as well have been standing still.

When she finally opened her eyes, Optimus was crouching back down, rifle discarded at his feet. Something in his hands, another weapon of some kind – no, a girl, a girl like her, only broken. Too still to be anything but.

Mikaela tried to catch her breath, but it felt as if the air around her had evaporated, leaving her stranded in a vacuum. She threw herself out of the truck, feet moving without her telling them to, running towards her friend she had strapped to the back of it. She wanted to turn around, wanted to watch the helicopter spin and dip, exploding in a white-hot supernova, propelling Sam off the top of the tower. She knew it was happening, even as she dove back into the cab to haul Bumblebee down the street towards the Marines. Even as she drove, she saw Optimus’ other hand reach out and catch the boy, cradling the two small bodies to him.

The monster that rose above them all roared, the sheer rage it emanated causing the ground to buckle and split. Terror drove her foot to the floorboard, the accelerator creaking from the force. Before she realized it, she had drawn level with the soldiers, grimy, soot-streaked faces staring at her in consternation. A hand smacked against her door, a mouth opened to say something –

And then she looked up, and saw moonlight reflecting off the canary yellow of a Camaro, only it wasn’t a Camaro. It watched them from its towering height on the hill, waiting for something. Her lower vantage point in the gravel pit left her feeling very small.

Sam’s fingers brushed hers for just an instant, but she felt it linger even after he pulled away. There was no sound, no speech, no breath. Everything hung suspended, and she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to do next. They all watched one another, and the words she needed to say hung in her throat, forgotten. The warmth from her friend’s hand became chilled, and when she looked down she saw that his fingers were pale and stiff. Feeling as if she were sleepwalking, she slowly looked back up, and saw the blue tint of his lips, the glazed emptiness of his eyes.

From his other side the Captain observed the pair, her expression remote. When she spoke, her voice was low and calm. _It’s too late, you know._

Mikaela met the woman’s eyes, seeing for the first time the darkness that seemed to swallow the green irises whole. When had her eyes been green? She couldn’t remember. A little frown puckered her brow. _But there’s still time._

 _You can’t go back. It’s too late._ The Captain reached out to turn Mikaela around, and when she looked she saw the dark, empty road that had been behind her, disappearing into the desert. She strained towards it, but the chain-link fence barred her way. She could feel its prongs digging into her flesh. She glanced down, and saw cold light reflecting off the metal talons that held her there. Her gaze followed it up, and up, into the star-lit night, catching a flash of twin red beacons high above. Frightened, she ducked away from those hands, craning her neck to look for Bumblebee, but her friend was gone. Everyone was gone. They were alone in the gravel pit.

She wanted to find the road again, but it was still blocked by the razor-wire fence. Sighing in frustration, she turned to make her way up the hill, but stopped halfway. In the Camaro’s place stood a colossal motorcycle, black as pitch, the rays of the floodlights seeming to stop just short of its shadow.

Entranced, she drew nearer, drinking in the machine. Wide mounted handlebars swept out like demons’ horns, framing a broad expanse of chassis devoid of any markings. Jagged six-inch spoilers jutted out menacingly to either side of narrow tires whose treads looked like they could shred steel.

It was a thing of malevolent beauty, and she wanted badly to touch it. Her palms itched with the need, and she took the last few steps forward without hesitation to run a hand confidently down the handlebars. At her touch the engine snarled to life, a malicious sound that she could feel all the way down to her toes. The spoilers quivered angrily, and as she trailed her fingers across the frame she saw the chassis ripple with her movements, like a lazy cat enjoying its mistress’ attentions.

She waited for a voice – _get in the car_ – but it never came. She tilted her head, a slow, dull frustration building inside of her. She was supposed to go somewhere, wasn’t she? Why weren’t they telling her to go? Idly she tapped a finger against the saddle, feeling the machine lurch impatiently beneath her hand.

It was time. She couldn’t wait any longer.

Without another thought she slung a leg across the monster, sliding into position effortlessly. She had only just settled into the seat when the machine leapt forward, a dark horse breaking from the gate. Asphalt was ground to dust beneath them, rising around them like a shroud.

The fence was gone, and before them sprawled the highway, a ribbon of darkness disappearing into the endless wasteland. To either side rose a gauntlet of stars, glittering coldly from their blanket of deepening blue. It was the only thing left that she could see, so she set her heel down, bracing herself, and felt the machine fishtail. Down the hill, out of the pit, and onto the highway they rode, its engine roaring like the blood in her ears. She didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

 Slowly, feeling as if she were swimming in Jell-O, Mikaela awakened. She peeled her eyelids apart, squinting against the bare bulb that hung over her corner. For a full minute she stared blearily into the shadows that lay across the enormous room, not registering her surroundings.

Finally she blinked, and swallowed experimentally. Her mouth was cotton-dry. She pushed herself upright, causing a small explosion of peanuts around her. Wiping at her face found more of the little Styrofoam pieces adhered to her cheeks and hair.

The dream clung to backs of her eyelids just like those peanuts, and she scrubbed at them angrily. _Girl, you’re cracked._

She hadn’t had a dream like that in months, and she wasn’t sure what had triggered it. Fear, perhaps; fear of leaving, fear of abandonment. It was stupid, but it kind of made sense.

The memory of dread was strong, and goose bumps rose on Mikaela’s flesh. The Captain really had fallen, and spent nearly four months in a coma as a result. If Optimus hadn’t been there – her stomach twisted, and abruptly she stood.  With a quiet huff, she shook off the remaining peanuts, and retied her hair. It wouldn’t do her any good to sit there and remember; that time was long gone, and she had things to do.

Glancing around, she was not completely shocked to find that the room had been stripped totally bare. It looked more like an empty warehouse than it probably had before the Autobots had taken over.

She was, however, appalled to see that the tank was gone, and the resulting jolt of alarm woke her right up. She swept her gaze past the empty space where the protoform had once been, tamping stubbornly down on the panic that seized her. Ratchet wouldn’t let anything happen to him, she was sure. All the same, it would have made her feel worlds better if she had been awake to supervise the move. Sneaky bastard, he had to have done that on purpose.

Mikaela eventually left the now-defunct Med bay, wandering down the echoing, empty corridors. Finally she came to what had passed for a courtyard, and saw Optimus. He stood alone in the open space, face raised up to the night sky. She knew without asking that he was scanning every wavelength, scouring every scrap of white noise and unfiltered sound that passed through the frequencies. For a minute she wavered, hesitant to interrupt him.

He made the decision for her, pulling himself reluctantly away from the spread of stars to turn to her. With an apologetic shrug, she stuffed her hands into her pockets. “Still nothing, huh?”

“Not yet.”

Pistons hissing quietly, he knelt before her, offering his hand. She pulled her own from their hiding places to hang onto his thumb. He rose smoothly back to his feet, and then she was being held up at a more comfortable level.  As one they turned their faces back to the sky, both searching the heavens for a sign that they weren’t sure would ever come.

Mikaela curled an arm around his digit as she settled herself into his palm, and stretched her feet across the width of it, just brushing his armor. She wriggled her toes in their worn sneakers idly, letting Optimus gather his thoughts. He was silent for another few moments, his fingers flexing unconsciously around her, cupping her to his chest. With a low sigh she leaned into the crease between his thumb and palm, feeling the subtle thrum of energy reverberate through her.

After a time, he spoke. “Time passes differently for us. If you were to compare the life cycle of a butterfly to that of a human, then you would come close to a Cybertronian’s time span.”

It wasn’t what she was expecting. But neither was it news to her, so she kept her silence. He continued.

“It is strange to think that you have seen so much, accomplished so many things, all in the time it would take for a sparkling to reach his first upgrade. Perhaps it is this lifespan that is the cause of so much war and strife here.”

Mikaela shifted a little, leaning back to get a better look at him. “What do you mean, Optimus?”

“It takes us Cybertronians many times longer to achieve a goal, to realize a thought. While our processors run that much faster than your brains, all it takes for a human to make a choice is a hundredth of a nanosecond to us. How much living you must press into a few cycles of your sun is astonishing. You must live, grow, learn , love, hate and die – all of these and so many more - in such an infinitesimal amount of time. No wonder your species is such a passionate one.”

The speech was of a length that soon her whole body was resonating with the echo of his words. Her feet, pressed as they were into his chest, tingled as his voice thrummed through them. It was a giddy feeling, and she wound both arms around his thumb to keep from fidgeting. From his vantage point he watched her, waiting patiently for her to settle.

Eventually she looked back up at him, brows tilted in contemplation. “You’re probably right. Maybe that’s why we kill each other, too. I mean,” she let go briefly to wave an arm in emphasis, “look at how many people are born and how many die every single day – every single turn of the world. It’s a breakneck pace, and I guess we’re all just trying to keep up.”

She could see him taking that and turning it over in his head. He nodded after a moment. “The human race is a fleeting one. Perhaps, realizing the restraints of time, it has formed its own sort of evolution. You realize that my own people have hardly changed in millions of years. We have been at war since before the human race was, in fact, a race.”

“That would make Bumblebee about as old as this planet, right?”

“Technically, yes. Not entirely, but close enough.”

Mikaela had to laugh at that.

He went on. “But the course of human evolution runs so much more quickly than ours. It is a wonder that you have not burned yourself out of existence by now.”

“Oh, believe me, we’ve tried.” She snorted.

Optimus made a musing sound. “But I believe that is the crux of your situation. You have tried so hard to reach beyond your limitations, past your own mortality. All of your history is on one long, endless loop, yet you survive, and more so, _thrive._ It is amazing to behold.”

She smiled at the awe in his voice.

Some time passed without either speaking, then. It was not an uncomfortable silence; rather, their thoughts stretched between them, not quite touching, at peace with the other.

Eventually he shifted Mikaela so that she could crawl up onto a pauldron, and she nestled there between a smokestack and the crook of his neck. Idly she studied the seams that marched up the column of his throat, up to the network of gears that held his jaw in place. _Mandible_ , she recited to herself, _zygomatic, temporal…_ It really was fascinating how similar the species were. What made a race propel itself up onto bipedals, to swing only two arms at its sides, to have its heart located in the region of its chest?

_Maybe,_ she thought, _maybe there really is something out there creating us in its own image._

She wished she had the guts to ask about girl Cybertronians. After hearing Bumblebee’s side of things, however, she thought it might be best to wait until she had Ratchet’s attention instead. Was there a female version of the Prime? Had they been warriors, as well, or did they leave the fighting to the mechs? _Did you lose someone, too?_ There was still so much she didn’t know, so much they kept hidden.

The girl tilted her head back, looking beyond Optimus into the velvety dark sky. A thin sliver of a moon hung there, and beyond that, the stars shone brightly. The arid atmosphere helped, and Mikaela was distantly grateful that she lived where she did. For a few moments she watched, letting her mind wander past Optimus and the moon, out to far-off places she had never seen. She thought on leaving, and being left behind.

Her dream came back to her, then. _It’s too late,_ she thought sadly, and suppressed a shiver.

“Optimus?”

“Yes, Mikaela?”

Maybe she shouldn’t say anything. But he was the only one who might answer kindly. Her voice was very small when she asked, “Are all of those stars dead now?”

One enormous hand came up, cupping around her, and for a brief moment stars both dead and living were blotted out as she was cradled to him. _A hug_ , she thought, _he’s hugging me_.

“Not all the stars, Mikaela. Not all. Some are just beginning their journey, and those that have passed...well, even dead stars burn bright.”

 

* * *

 

The next day dawned bright and clear, and it stayed that way throughout her journey west. The California air felt good as she sped into it, feeling almost as if she was sailing on the high seas, cutting across waves that parted for the majestic bulk of her ship. It was a heady, fanciful sensation, and she welcomed it. She leaned back, feeling the pull of the road and the wind, and didn’t think of Sam at all.

The other half of her time was spent in Ratchet’s cab, dozing, chatting, or playing Tetris on her new computer tablet, a demo version that had yet to be released to the public. It was _awesome_ , and she couldn’t stop fiddling with it. Rumor had it Apple had one in the works, but that wouldn’t be for another few years. She was very pleased with herself, as a result.

After a time Alexis pulled up in her Fiat, as usual disregarding any and all trafficking laws, and the two exchanged pleasantries over the roar of the wind. Ratchet finally pulled away, snapping at her to either use her phone or Sign Language, he was trying to cruise here, for Primus’ sake. After that she went back to her nifty tablet, silently vowing to ignore him the next time _he_ wanted a decent conversation.

After a good five hours or so, and a couple of seat swaps, their convoy began to meander south, skirting around San Francisco. They hit the coast around mid-afternoon. Mikaela had her visor up, and the salt air stung her eyes before it ever came into view. Then they crested a low hill, and there was the ocean sprawling grand and endless, fading into the sky. It was a sight she had been privy to many times, but this one was different. This time she wouldn’t be stopping at the end of the shallows; she’d be going right over the edge of the horizon.

Leaning low over the bars she hit the throttle, letting the snarl of the Monster shred the air behind her as she sped to the front of the caravan. She could hear Ratchet hollering after her, but she was well-practiced at tuning him out, and soon she had left him in the dust. She passed a multitude of armored military trucks; the third of which she knew housed Barricade. Ahead she saw the Captain, studiously keeping to the right side of the road with a fierce scowl and white knuckles (she’d already heard the Major warn her –repeatedly – that they didn’t need any more attention than they were already going to be getting, and could you please not flip me off? I do know what that means.).

Then she was past Starling, who glared after her with what was surely a case of driving envy, and was up beside Optimus, heading up the convoy. He was practicing using his hologram, and the sight of it made her giggle. It looked like he had decided on the cowboy hat. There had been a debate not too long ago between the merits of such a hat, versus the much-venerated trucker’s cap; he had said that the ball cap gave him hat hair. Mikaela wasn’t sure if he even knew what that meant, but she thought the cowboy hat suited him better, anyway.

Mikaela cruised beside him for a bit, blatantly ignoring the Major’s low-profile rule. She gave a jaunty wave, and to her delight he responded with a loud, sharp execution of his cab whistle. She burst out laughing.

Eventually she pulled ahead, pretending for a moment she was a scout, running ahead of the expedition to blaze a trail where no one had ever dared trek before. Mikaela leaned back and pulled off her helmet, letting the wind tear through her straggling braid. The air bit at her, making her eyes water again, but she kept them wide open. Still she didn’t think of Sam, or her dad. She pretended she was utterly alone on this vast stretch of ancient highway, and was content.

They kept on for two, three more hours; she was the first to lay eyes on the small, shabby port that housed the ferries. The loading process took no time at all, and then they were at sea, the ferry’s motors rumbling beneath her new sneakers.

Mikaela only watched the receding shore for a minute or two. Then she decided she’d had enough of that, and moved to the prow of the ferry, keeping to the top level. She met Alexis there, and the two women stood at the rail in silence, watching the sun sink into water turned blood-red. The fiery horizon marched onward, and they chased it, trailing a blanket of stars behind them.

The Captain and she were the first to spot it; a dim silhouette against the darkening sky. Her heart leapt in her chest, and beside her the Captain smiled, a rare occurrence. “Will you look at that,” Alexis murmured.

Mikaela realized she was holding her breath, and made herself let it go. She looked, and felt awed _. I’m here. I did it._

Her feet were the first to hit the sand.


	6. Grave Men Near Death... 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey!
> 
> Sorry, sorry. I couldn't resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from "Blinding," by Florence + the Machine. Chapter titles are from Dylan Thomas' poem "Dying of the Light."

_Seems that I have been held in some dreaming state; a tourist in the waking world, never quite awake -_

 

Mikaela wandered into the new medical bay cautiously, aware of Ratchet and Ironhide behind her but not really listening to their bickering. As soon as she stepped foot through the enormous double sliding doors, she stumbled to a halt. Ironhide had to pick her up by the scruff of her jacket and relocate her safely off to one side, with Ratchet reminding her that she _really should know better by now._ His scolding fell on deaf ears.

The place was massive, nearly the length of half a football field, and just as deep. Off to her right she saw the holographic display screen that took up most of the wall, along with the long control panel below it that monitored just about every piece of equipment in the room, as well as the vitals of patients. There was a small, Mikaela-sized set of stairs that led up to it, something that had been sorely lacking at their warehouse. She made a giddy noise and headed towards it.

There were two rows of bio-beds situated down the length of the room, eight in all. Mikaela wondered just how many injured Autobots Ratchet was planning on torturing, then immediately felt guilty. They'll come, she thought to herself firmly. Though she hoped that so many beds wouldn't be in use all at once.

The console, when she climbed up to it, consisted of so many dials and read-outs that she was quickly lost. Well, that’s what she was here for, to learn all this. As she wandered down the length of it, she saw the various odds and ends of Ratchet's trade, all made to his specifications, some so large and cumbersome they had to be mounted on the ceiling and swung by a rotating arm. There were menacing looking grapplers and pincers, a couple of blowtorches that looked like they could melt Ironhide right through, several enormous drills and bolt-cutters, as well as what she was sure were the Jaws of Life. In the very back there was another set of doors, leading to what Mikaela assumed were either Ratchet's quarters, or a storage closet. Menacing-looking cables and wires ran sinuously throughout, giving the enormous room the look of some techno-organic growth.

All in all, it was the stuff of out of a gear-head's wet dreams. And possibly H.P. Lovecraft's.

In the back, next to the doorway, there was what looked like a cage lift, big enough for even Optimus to fit into. It rose up into a second level; more storage, perhaps? There was even a set of stairs mounted against the wall near the front entrance of the lab that led up to it. Squinting, she noticed a dull blue shimmer in the darkness of the rafters that a catwalk extended from; what was _that_ about?

As she continued to explore, she realized that something was missing. She thought she was supposed to get her own office. Maybe, like, a cubicle or something that was big enough for a workbench and computer and herself. She was already drooling with envy over Ratchet's new domain and all his shiny toys, and she wanted badly to get a little piece of it for herself. But when she asked, Ratchet gave her an inscrutable look. Like he was considering whether to give her the bad news now or later. Something in her chest tightened.

"You're not getting an office, Mikaela. I don't think it quite merits the word."

That didn't sound promising. She blinked hard, trying to read his face, but he was totally deadpan. "So…do I get a station or something? A desk? A chair? Do I at least get a little spinny chair?" Her voice was climbing without her realizing; she cut herself off and coughed in embarrassment.

"There's a chair, yes. I'm not sure if it spins."

 _Seriously_? "So…where is this chair located?"

The look intensified. It also came with a side-helping of smugness. He waved one hand airily towards the metal-wrought set of stairs that were mounted to the immediate left of the main doors. They led steeply up, nearly all the way to the vaulted ceiling, in the shadows. There they turned into a suspended walkway that spanned a few good meters until it disappeared into the strange shimmer she'd noticed earlier.

Eyes wide, she turned to look at him. He looked dryly amused. "I think it's somewhere up there. Go and check, will you?"

…All right then.

Her stomach was quivering as she mounted the metal staircase. It was backless, but wide and sturdy, with heavy side guards. The catwalk was the same; the rails came up a little past her waist, which was nice. It was when she reached it that she stopped again, staring down the walkway.

The doors at the other end were a duplicate of the main ones below. Like the lift, they were just tall enough for Optimus to duck into, if she judged correctly. But it was the wall that stretched the length of the second story, hiding it from prying eyes, that held her full attention. That blue shimmer had been a plasma shield, just barely transparent enough to make out a few silhouettes that left her feeling giddy. Palms sweating, she reached the doors, which opened with a soft, pneumatic hiss. She stopped. She stared.

There was a chair. There was also a state of the art lab that came with it.

She barely - _barely_ \- restrained herself from running back down those steps squealing like a Valley girl and attaching herself to Ratchet's leg. She could squeal all she wanted after the tour.

During her explorations, she saw that she was important enough to merit her own private quarters, which were attached to her work space (either that or Alexis had been making up horrible lies, telling them she talked in her sleep or something, and wanted her quarantined). Ratchet had been right; _office_ didn't begin to cover it. There were human-sized diagnostics and miscellaneous equipment, most of which mirrored Ratchet's down below (she had her very own holo-screen and -table!) Like nearly everywhere else on the base, it was more than big enough to hold an Autobot, with two bio-beds, one over-sized, and again, one human-sized. The hovering kind. She spent a good ten minutes just sticking her fingers in and out of the gravity disperser, watching the bed bob up and down with her actions. When she checked the supply closet (walk-in size, of course), she found things like jumper cables and tire gauges and even car wax (she thought of Ironhide and laughed). In the back there was the cage lift, for anyone too heavy for those stairs - or if they were just feeling lazy.

All of this definitely called for a plaque - big enough even for even the humans to see from a distance - with her name and occupation in all caps, and post it at the foot of the stairs. And another one by the lift. Big and brass and official enough for even Simmons.

Upon deciding this, she promptly flew back downstairs, squealing mightily, and flung her arms around Ratchet's nearest available limb - his left leg. "Thank you thank you _thank you_!" She chanted as she dangled there. He looked down at her bemusedly, shaking his head. A smirk threatened to appear, but he quashed it.

"So I take it the chair _does_ spin."

 

* * *

 

 

The Captain wandered in sometime the day after - though not so much _wandered_ as _strode with definitive purpose_ \- and was crouching in front of the base of Mikaela's bio-bed, poking at the grav-disperser mechanism, muttering under her breath. Mikaela watched from the corner of her eye as the bed seemed to undulate in place, rising and falling as the Captain stuck one finger, then two, then her whole hand between the generator and the cot. She would never admit to doing the exact same thing yesterday. Medics should have some dignity, after all.

It was funny, though, watching Starling play with the machine just like she had. Mikaela knew that the Captain was very intelligent, and had a bit of a rapport with machinery, but had never seen her actually do anything that could be called 'tinkering' with anything other than her own jet. Little outside the realm of flight seemed to capture Alexis' interest. Though she had seen her fix a toaster once, after Sam had tried stuffing a mini pizza into it (It was after that incident that Starling had decided that Sam needed to know how to cook).

"So," Starling began, finally pulling her hand away and settling back on her heels, "you've got this entire flat to yourself?" She leaned back to survey the rest of the room critically. Mikaela hummed an affirmative, tapping away at the computer, scrolling through Bumblebee's engine diagnostics he'd graciously allowed her to download.

The woman snorted. "God knows more's been given to less deserving, I suppose." At that Mikaela glanced up, brows furrowed. The Captain leveled a Look at her. "You just make sure you keep this place up, don't go exploding anything, yeah?"

Mikaela glared. "I do know the difference between nitro and engine coolant, thanks. I was practically raised inside a garage."

"It shows. You've got something, just - " she motioned towards the girl in general. "There."

Her jaw dropped. "Says the woman who thinks Orange Clean is _body lotion_." She chucked an '84 Lamborghini manual at her, chasing her away from the bed.

"At least I _use_ it!"

"Oh my God, you didn't."

The Captain veered towards the door, avoiding the next thrown projectile neatly. She paused before exiting, turning towards the girl with arms crossed. "Just," she scowled heavily (something she was very good at), "if you need an extra set of hands, you know, doing a thermal mapping or replacing someone's rear axle, just give me a shout. I do know a thing or two about machines." Her face and voice were stern.

Mikaela stared. "You are the only person I know that sounds like you're under threat of dismemberment when you're offering help." She stared some more. "You're…oh my God, you're jealous! Ha!" She crowed, lounging back in her (spinny) chair triumphantly. "What, getting bored with those decrepit old Raptors? Need an actual challenge once in a while?"

It was her turn to duck - the woman apparently thought throwing a tire gauge was a mature and thoughtful response. "Hey, watch it, this monitor's brand new!"

"Oh, stuff it."

"Don’t be jealous…hey, maybe we can find a Seeker for you to upgrade to. You know, since your ride is older than anything I've got here."

A second bottle followed.

"I'll have you know my plane is a state of the art, high-functioning piece of weaponry, capable of advanced - "

"It's an F-22. Didn't they start making those around the same time we discovered petrol?"

The Captain's eyes narrowed, and she glared at Mikaela through her lashes. "Isn't it about time you called your boy?"

Okay, that was cheating. She frumped and crossed her arms, looking away. "I was going to get unpacked first. Get settled in."

"That could take all of a few weeks, knowing you."

"It is not my fault I like to have a new outfit for every day of the week. Unlike some people, who wear the same shirt three days in a row."

Unfortunately, Starling didn’t take the bait. Given that she'd been raised by three older brothers, she was well versed in the art of distraction. She leaned against the doorjamb, the corners of her mouth tucked in. She considered the girl in front of her, who was chewing her lip and avoiding her gaze. With a sigh, she pulled herself upright and crossed the room to scoop up the tire gauge. She let Mikaela stew for a minute, appearing to gather her own thoughts as she busied herself.

Finally she dropped the gauge onto its table, and turned back to the girl. Her face had lost its stern edge, and as she rubbed her hands together Mikaela thought that the Captain almost appeared nervous. The girl curled her fingers around her elbows, leaning back in her chair as she waited for the other to speak. As she watched her, it occurred to Mikaela that this might have been the first time the Captain had sought her out specifically, with no one hanging over either's shoulder. Every time they'd conversed in the past, either Sam, Bumblebee, the Colonel, or some other individual had been hovering in the background. And from what she'd observed, the Captain never spoke to anyone unless it was for a explicit purpose.

Well. Maybe Starling was thawing a little. It wasn't so long ago that Mikaela would have laughed at the practical woman's discomfort, instead of waiting patiently for her to find her words. Apparently fighting for your life in an alien war had some side benefits, such as personal growth.

Eventually Mikaela grew tired of watching the Captain dither, and grabbed the extra chair, thrusting it towards her. She scowled at it for a moment before settling in backwards, draping her arms across the backrest.

"Look," she started, "I am absolutely the last person that should be giving out advice like this, but have you really thought about this long-distance business? I mean, sat down and drawn up a list of pros and cons -"

" - A _list_?"

"And weighed them against each other? Granted, your situation is…unique…but the same rules still apply."

"Rules."

"Yes. Are you going to keep repeating me?"

"Rep- um, no. No, I'm good, sorry. A list, though, _really_?"

"Relationships aren't exactly the type of thing you can put off or decide upon in a split second, Mikaela. They take careful consideration, dedication, not to mention a few key things in common. Such as being on the same continent."

The girl winced, and ducked her head to study her nails.

"Mikaela."

"Look, what do you want me to say? That if it came down to a choice, of course I'd choose him? That I miss him? That I wish he was here right this very second and that - " Her voice broke, and she curled her hands into fists. "I really do care about him, you know."

"I do know. I think anyone with eyes knows."

"It's just… _things._ All this." She flung out her arms in an expansive gesture. "This is basically everything I never knew I wanted until it just _happened._ What was I supposed to do, sit tight in Nevada for the rest of my life, waiting for the next opportunity to drop in my lap? I have one chance, Alexis, one chance to be a part of something. To _make a difference_. How do you just walk away from that? How?

Why do I have to choose? Why can't I just…have both?"

The look on the Captain's face at that moment reminded Mikaela that she wasn't the only one far from home. Her eyes were tight with a familiar sadness, and she couldn't look for very long before ducking her gaze. Starling's chair creaked as she leaned back to stare at the ceiling. For several long moments neither said anything.

Finally the Captain let out a breath, and kept her eyes on the rafters as she spoke. "For my entire life, I have had people telling me what choices to make. Telling me there wasn’t any choice at all, that they knew best and to just accept it. First my father, then my brother. James.

All the opportunities I've been given…were just that, they were given to me. And for most of my life I've just nodded and smiled and tugged my forelock. It was almost a relief, knowing your destiny had already been mapped out for you.

It took me a very long time to realize that all along I _had_ been given a choice: comply, or refuse. I had simply done what they expected of me. But it wasn't out of duty; I chose out of love. I would have slit my wrists rather than disappoint them. Such is the curse of family. You and I? Our people mean more to us than our own lives. And mine used that against me.

It's a fine edge we walk, between their expectations and yours. And those two hardly ever coincide. We aren't always going to get to have it all, Mikaela. Sometimes our future demands sacrifice: to let go of what we already have. So right now you need to decide not only if this is what you want, but what _he_ wants. You've made the decision to be here. Going from there, what do you think is best…for both of you?"

It was the most she had ever spoken to anyone here, Mikaela was willing to bet. As for herself, she couldn't think of a proper response to such raw honesty. Somewhere inside her she could feel the answer to the question, but she couldn't bear to speak it. Not yet. Not when so many other things had been left unspoken. She thought of that night on the beach, and felt her eyes sting. After a few calming breaths, she let out a watery laugh, scrubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. "No sacrifice, no victory, huh.

Question is, what if the sacrifice outweighs the victory?"

The Captain laced her hands together carefully, studying them. "That's the trick, isn't it. Knowing which is which."

 

* * *

 

 

After that rather horrible - if enlightening - conversation, the shininess of her new domain dimmed just a little. There was nothing to do except unpack and arrange everything to her liking, and she dragged her feet doing it. It gave her an excuse to fire off quick texts to Sam and her family instead of having to go through the ordeal of speaking.

And of course life went on. The world didn't stop spinning as soon as she was out of the picture; rather, it almost seemed to have sped up, moving at a breakneck pace she had never encountered before. It was exhausting, and left her little time to worry about the nonessential things hovering out of her orbit.

Work helped. The simple day-to-day routine let her ease out of her own skin and into the movements of her task, taking away the tension she felt when idle. She ran on the beach. Played volleyball with the new airmen - of course she'd been on Alexis' team; the Marines might semper fi, but those pilots were just _faster._ Gave Ironhide a new paintjob. (He enjoyed the red much more than the plain black he'd been stuck with since landing on Earth.) Tuned and retuned her bike. Changed Optimus' tires. Learned chess from the Captain. Picked on the Colonel. Everyone and everything offered a chance to distract herself, and she took them up on it eagerly.

She kept the Ducati as safe as she could, storing it in a private berth in one of the garages, making sure to wipe it down and cover it after every outing. It was a little like taking care of a horse, which she only very vaguely remembered doing once, years and years ago, at camp. But she decided it was the same concept - her own iron horse needed to be kept up and running smoothly, and it would repay her with years of faithful service. It seemed like an even trade, and she was always happy to hold up her end of it. It gave her time to think, and reacquaint herself with the more intricate workings of the machine, all the little tics and nuances that made it run the way it did.

As the days grew shorter and her online classes started, she made sure to find time to keep this in her routine. Her Decepticon was nearly finished - they had completed most of the tests, and she wanted to be absolutely certain her bike was in peak condition when they activated the transformation cog. The paint job wasn’t necessarily at the top of her priority list, though she'd been doodling some ideas in her down time - but what if Barricade wanted something different? She found she sometimes needed to remind herself that this wasn't just another bike she was building. If, in fact, he had any personality left by the time the scouring viruses had done their work, then he might want to choose something for himself.

The thought of Ratchet, or anyone, going inside to rummage around in a person's head left her uneasy. He'd sat her down just days ago to explain the process. The virus would scrub out any violent tendencies, and release a delayed trigger program that would ensure he could not use his weapons on humans, unless manually overridden to do so. He had also made her give him a voice sample, a string of sound that would deactivate his motor relays should she need to.

"We're not trying to force a new personality on him, Mikaela. There's nothing left in his databanks; if there were, this wouldn't be possible. You simply can't overwrite a preexisting program of that complexity. We're merely rebooting the system in order to load a starter program, a root function from which all other personality and sociological files can expand."

To her this just sounded like a really fancy way of saying they were erasing him what was left of him, taking out the stuff they didn't approve of and putting in only the things they needed. A whole new kind of personality transplant. It didn't sit well with her; but then, was it really her place to preach ethics to an alien race with such vastly different mores and physiology? So she bit her tongue and kept her head down, and worked on her Decepticon without complaint. He would be able to speak (just not in his own voice, a five-year-old Alexis whispered in the back of her head murmured), and he would be able to fight (just not against the dying of the light, her mother's voice reminded her as she read from one of her books). Those were the only things that seemed to matter.

But the thoughts wouldn't leave her alone; of Alexis, of her mother and her books, and of not having a choice. If someone had been riding her shoulder her entire life, telling her what to say, what to do, what to _think_ …but she had, hadn't she? Her so-called friends, all the boys she'd had; every last one of them had made sure she acted exactly to their expectations. If she hadn't finally grown sick of it all - the hypocrisy, the self-doubt, the social conditioning - God, if she hadn't walked away from Trent that day, would she even be here now? Somehow she didn't think so.

And Barricade was going to wake up with someone else's ideas in his head, never knowing what it was like to speak his own words or fight his own battles. It just didn't feel _right_.

 

* * *

 

 

There were a few hiccups along the way. Of course there were; it wouldn't be her life if there weren't. In between Ratchet disappearing for hours on end and all of her _activities,_ she was surprised the world hadn't imploded while she wasn't looking.

"Somewhere in the Pit there is a list of the tormented, and my name is at the top of it."

Ratchet's voice echoed through the empty space. The scowl he sported deepened as he glared at the display, as if it had suggested he take up macramé. Even from her position halfway across the room she could sense his ire, as he muttered and tapped almost viciously at the holo-screen, scrolling past things too rapidly for Mikaela to make any sense of them.

Almost absently she snipped away the loose end of a copper thread that trailed out of Barricade's chest cavity. Ratchet had been crankier than usual the last few days, often disappearing into the back rooms - what she'd discovered was the ICU - and locking himself in for hours at a time. He had only now emerged from a two-day internment, not even letting her inside to bring him some very pungent high-grade that Ironhide had whipped up. She had only ever seen the rooms once, and didn’t notice much difference between the two units. But there was another door at the back of the ICU that was kept locked and kept out of her eyesight. It was probably just Ratchet's personal lab, which when she stopped to think about it, should make her worry even more, not less.

She stifled a sigh. At this point, she was wondering how Ratchet was still in his right mind, he was so obsessive-compulsive.

Finally he straightened, grunting and running a hand absentmindedly across the chevron that was mounted at the front of his helm. It was how she could tell he was processing a puzzle, thinking hard. Her concern - and curiosity - peaked, she set down her tool and wandered across the room, craning her neck to get a better look at his work. Then she understood.

It was Barricade's files: more specifically, his memory sensory files, the only ones Ratchet had been able to salvage. And try as he might, there was no accessing them. She made a sympathetic noise, patting his leg. "Anything I can do?"

He snorted and folded his arms, not taking his optics away from the screen. "Not unless you can get in there and speak directly to the files themselves. I tried converting them to binary, but that worked about as well as an umbrella underwater. I am _missing_ something. It's not just the data; it's quite corrupted, yes, but not to the extent that it should be inaccessible. There's something else at work here, something I haven't factored in."

It was Mikaela's turn to scowl. She mimicked his posture, crossing her arms and staring hard at the display. "Well...he's supposed to be a strategist, right? He had to have figured something like this might happen, that he could get hacked. And if he's as good as you say, then he'll have buried his own memories in so many codes and subroutines that maybe…well, maybe he's the only one that can access them at this point."

The medic groaned and threw up his hands, finally turning away from the screen. "This is _not_ my area of expertise, and there's not many things I can say that about. This was Jazz's field. He was the spy; he could make you tell him things you hadn't even known you were thinking.

We need Jazz."

His voice had gone tight, and Mikaela felt sympathy pangs. In a way, she was almost glad she hadn't gotten to know the mech before he'd been killed. She was used to people leaving her by this point, but that didn’t mean she welcomed it. Some things were just better off they way they were.

But it was in neither of the medics' natures to wallow, so Mikaela swallowed the lump in her throat and Ratchet moved briskly to close the files. "We'll just have to make do. I believe you're right; after we get him back online, we should be able to gain access to what we need. He'll give it to us willingly."

And there were the chills again. _Ugh_ , she really needed to get over this. His processor was _scrap_ ; there was barely anything left to salvage as it was, much less make use of. It would be a newer, kinder Barricade, and the world would be the better for it.

So why did she still have the creeping feeling that this was going to go very, very wrong?

 

* * *

 

I'm not doing anything wrong, I'm not doing anything wrong, I'm not…she chanted silently as she snuck downstairs a few nights later. It seemed to work; Ratchet was staying in his quarters, deep in recharge after a long day cleaning Ironhide's cannons of tar and sand, and putting up with said mech. She didn’t blame him for being exhausted, especially when It gave her extra time to finish rewriting Barricade's primary directive files.

After studying it for more hours than she cared to admit, she'd finally decided how to work out her little moral dilemma, and set about correcting it. Oh, she wasn't going to let him hurt anyone…but she made some adjustments to his data assimilation core, the systems that regulated how he broke down his data intake and converted it via his personality databank. She just had to pay close attention to her coding, and then she was sure she could do this sort of thing in her sleep - or at least after going for an hour-long jog on the beach, followed by some grueling volleyball, Marines vs. Air Force. (Alexis' team won, to absolutely no one's surprise).

Ratchet, of course, had other ideas about his programming. And her involvement in it. She needed to be _supervised._

But Mikaela wasn’t disobeying orders, not really. The base was never deserted; both men and mechs made their nightly rounds consistently, whether on duty or off. So she wasn’t technically alone.

Plus, hey, Barricade was here. Even if he was unconscious.

Though come to think of it, that’s probably why Ratchet gave her the order in the first place. _You are not to be in the med bay alone; you are not to even_ think _about further development on Barricade while I am not there. Is that clear enough for you, youngling?_ He only called her that when he was worried about her, and the thought made her belly squirm. But this was something she _had_ to do, and breaking a few rules to get it done would be worth it. Sacrifice and victory.

She told herself he had meant it in a different context, more to do with all the dangerous, bone-crushing equipment that could malfunction should she try to work it by herself. Barricade himself was no threat. His neural network was sound, finally, but they had disengaged it until Ratchet could make more adjustments to his programming. There was no way he could wake up and do anything, not when he was in forced stasis without any kind of energy supply to support him.

It had started with the coding, until she got it into her head to check the cables that supported the spark chamber - they had been loosened while the construction was still ongoing. They would need to be jacked in so that the relays would be at optimum in-and-output. She hadn't _meant_ to impale herself on that sliver of interior armor, but there she was, bent over Barricade's open chassis, kneeling on his torso, hand caught by that damned spike.

She was wearing her best gloves, and had donned a lead apron and face shield just for the occasion. The gloves were thin but lined with the tightest weave of silk available, for durability and to give her more dexterity during various procedures. The chest armor that was supposed to protect the chamber had been wedged open, and the superfine Adamantium spikes that thrust themselves protectively around the new spark chamber had pricked her countless times as she methodically rigged each cable into the casing.

As she pulled back from the last of the settings, finally done with the task, a sliver that had escaped her detection caught at her glove as she pulled back. Thinking it would simply slip off, and impatient to be done, she yanked back harder than she should have. The splinter sliced straight through her silk-lined gloves like a hot knife in butter, biting deep into her palm. With a stifled cry, she dropped the wrench she had been wielding and went still, to avoid further injury. Mikaela watched with a sinking stomach as blood gushed hotly across her palm and down the metal shard, coating it in crimson.

When she attempted to carefully dislodge it, the shard only sank in deeper. Sucking in a lungful of air, she gritted her teeth and fished around in her apron pocket for a scrap of cleaning cloth, anything to stem the flow of blood that still dripped down. As she frantically patted herself down, she kept her watering eyes on the impaled hand.

Her blood continued to seep slowly down the spear, and as she watched, it ran its course down into the Deception’s chest cavity. The cleaning cloth eluded her, and she tried to keep still. Soon all she could hear were her own wheezing breaths, and the dull spatter of her blood as it dotted the exterior of the spark chamber. Primus, how much blood was in her hand, anyway? It wouldn’t _stop._ She swayed on her knees, suddenly overcome with vertigo, and she clung to the edge of the gaping chest with her other hand, feeling more splinters bite down on her clenched fingers. Breathing carefully through her nose and out her mouth, she attempted to steady herself. She had seen blood before – buckets of it, tidal waves of it, in Mission City. It shouldn’t make any difference that it was her own this time.

 _That’s not it,_ she thought as she felt acid burn the back of her throat. A weight was slowly settling itself across her shoulders, creeping down her spine until she could no longer hold herself upright. Her knees protested as she leaned forward, trying to catch her balance. The sharp edges of armor still bit into the gloved fingers of her good hand, and she could feel the pulse of her blood as it throbbed at her wrists, her temples, her throat, watching as the beat of her heart pushed more blood out onto the chamber. The place where the armor speared her pulsated, white hot with agony. The feeling shot all the way up her arm and into her chest, as if the pain were setting her blood on fire.

 _This_ cannot _be happening again. Primus, how many extraterrestrial experiences can a person_ have _in one summer?_

The weight held her down, until her head dropped down into the chest cavity. Her whole body shook with the effort to hold herself up, and she could feel the sting of sweat burning at the corner of her eyes. Once more she found herself unable to breathe, unable to make a sound as _something_ pulled her down, down, her injured appendage bending at an excruciating angle as she struggled to keep it from tearing open further. Her attempts were futile, and as her good arm gave out, the shard that held her left hand captive tore free, and she just managed to catch herself from slamming into the chamber face-first.

Searing pain fired her nerve endings anew; she choked on a silent scream. Spots swam across her vision, and she gagged soundlessly, the looming walls that enveloped her upper body scraping against her. Her left hand, the one that had been impaled, lay flat against the chamber where she had caught herself. Shaking, she tried to pull herself back up, but it was as if the pain had sucked every last bit of willpower from her bones. Her good hand fumbled, dragging along the jagged wall of metal uselessly as she scrambled for purchase. All the while, blood continued to seep from her wound.

As she watched through bleary eyes, a coat of crimson slowly gathered beneath her gloved hand, trickling across the pockmarked surface of the spark chamber as if pulled by gravity. It spilled into every crevice; every sliver of opening that riddled the chamber seemed to yawn wider as it welcomed the blood into its heart. It would have been fascinating to watch, if it hadn't been _her_ blood it was sucking up so ravenously.

Carefully, oh so carefully, she slid until her knees nearly touched the table on either side of the Con's waist, straddling him so she could gain some leverage. It was as she was slowly easing back, heedless to the edges biting into her good hand, that she noticed it. The white-hot operating lights washed out most of the color in her vision, turning the mirror bright armor into a sea of sunlight on metal. She squinted, halting in her efforts, and leaned forward again - I need to see what's happening: I'm a medic, I should know these things, she thought.

Through the minute gaps in the casing where her blood had leaked through - _leaked_ , not pulled, she told herself sternly - she could see the white-blue glow of his spark. That in itself wasn't alarming. It was the pulsing that caught her eye. _It's not supposed to be doing that anymore; he isn't online or hooked up to a power supply._ The pain was causing her vision to waver in the too-bright lights, that's all it was. As she pulled forward just a little bit farther, her hand slid back down onto the chamber, resting in its former position. Her hand, the pulsating light…well, _this_ was familiar.

Once more she felt the throb of her blood, all the way through her hand and up her arm and behind her eyelids, and then realized it wasn't her. Not entirely. Beneath her the casing was _vibrating_ , a faint but familiar rhythm that shook its way through her skull and down her spine and into a place beneath her ribs: her heart, pounding in its cage, seemed to by trying to shake itself free to beat in time with the cadence. Beneath her it came in through the table, making her toes inside of their sneakers tingle. Her pulse tripped and stammered, adjusting itself; as she watched she saw something like heat lightning flare through the seams, so much like the first night she had stood too close, when the light had reached for her.

As before, her blood seemed to burn in her veins, searing her from the inside out. She couldn't summon the energy to move away; every effort she made simply pulled her _in._ On instinct her eyes closed against the brilliant light, but she could see it, feel it behind her eyelids. It was blinding. It was terrifying.

She couldn't let it show. She had to be strong, she had to make sure she gave them _nothing_ -

_-you might as well offline me now; I know all your tactics. I even invented a few of them._

Rasping, hoarse laughter. _Oh, I knew not all of you Autobots were noble and true. I agree, it would not work so well if you knew what was coming. It's the anticipation of the_ unknown _that wreaks such havoc on your processor, as much as the physical pain._ So much that it feels as if her spark might collapse in on itself, like a dying star. Yet her training, her programming, her very being resists it, fortifies her from the worst of it. That familiar feeling takes hold in her chest; methodically she barricades herself with it, throwing up shields embedded at her sparking. She drifts behind her walls for a bit, dimly feeling her body as they slowly pull it apart, piece by piece. It will do them no good. This is what she had been made for.

She lets the distant pain kindle her fury, a frozen heat in her core. Others burn fast and hot and let that rage turn their insides to ash. Hers is a long, slow burn, cold and implacable. It's always been there, as far back as she can remember. There is nothing in particular to be angry about - only the injustice done to her at her sparking, only the isolation and fear directed at her for being nothing more than a war machine, only the utter ruin of her home and her brothers and everything she ever loved - _no_. There is no reason to be so angry. It was just how she was built.

During a lull she comes back to herself, still quietly seething. There is an ache in her shoulder joints and arms from where she's been strung up; her toecaps barely brush the floor. Clinically she notes the broad swath of tools and implements they had used against her, laying so innocuously on the tray. Then she takes stock of her injuries, percentages of damaged equipment and hardware scrolling across her vision. In front of her looms the shape of her interrogator, backlit by the operating lights; automatically she registers his position and placement according to the layout of the room. Despite the waning percentage of her chances of either rescue or escape, she imprints everything. _Always have a backup plan_.

Above her the cold light burns into her optics; she closes them against it lest they do permanent damage. More time passes inside her processor; they are doing something to her arms, she feels. With a slightly beleaguered feeling she realizes she might need some new appendages after all of this is over. Ratchet will patch her back up; thanks to the twins' scavenging they have plenty of spare parts to pass around.

In between sessions she needles her interrogator, intending to set him over the edge, possibly to make a mistake or simply offline her in a fit of rage. But this one is a professional, used to the calculated vitriol she delivers him. Such tactics will not work here.

Another age passes. Then she realizes he is speaking once more, over her shoulder this time, to someone in the doorway. Someone with a heavy arsenal and a defensive position should she decide she's had enough. If only.

_He's not going to break, is he._

_It doesn't seem so. Initiate the program download, will you? I've a mind to try it on this one._

_You mean the shell -_

_Of course, you imbecile. I've deduced that this one may be beyond even my vast capabilities. But_ no _one can resist my Program._

 _No._ No.

Fear and rage clamor for attention in her spark. She knows what the interrogator speaks of. It was what she came for. She will make them kill her before they upload it.

But no. She has already tried that, lobbed her most cutting, scathing observations and insults at him, wielded subtly and artfully, and nothing changed.

She will have to do it herself.

A breath is taken through her denta, what remains of it. It whistles strangely between the cracks. She rolls her helm until she is looking Shockwave straight in the optics. Smiles a little. He smiles back. She does not let him see her thoughts as she quietly initiates her own program, her only way out now, it seems. As it boots, she feels what is left of her fear begin to ebb, and she welcomes back the anger. It's her fuel, her drive, her reason.She lets it speak for her.

_My designation is Prowl. My interstream data code is thirty-two point oh nine seven eight. My rank is Second. My designation is Prowl. My interstream data code is thirty-two point oh nine seven eight. My rank is Second._

_My designation is Prowl -_

The Con's virus enters through the base of her cranium, just below her helm. It is cold and quiet and uncaring - they are much alike. The words still flow, though they are more sluggish and unsteady than they were nanoseconds before. Still she presses on, the rage fueling her, reminding her, barricading her within her own identity.

As she speaks something comes slowly over her, an encroaching heat that creeps through her processor alongside the cold indifference of the program and her own thoughts. It feels like memory files and the impressions of faces, of voices she will never hear again: her younger brother; her comrades-in-arms. She only hopes they will think fondly of her, after, and then forget. Forgetting would be better than the pain of remembering.

One voice stands out above it all; it is at once alien and familiar, fierce and melancholy. Deafening. Blinding. Her optical and neural relays must be shutting down. Rage or something close to it heats her from within, crushing the spark inside her chest as she strains to listen above the din.

Don't go. Don't. _Fight it._

-Command: offline sequence begin.-

_My designation is Prowl._

Please just hang on. _Be strong._

-Report: offline sequence initiating.-

_My designation is Prowl._

You can't let them win. Rage, _rage against it!_

-Report: download in progress. At thirty-eight percent. Forty-five percent. Sixty-eight. Eighty three. Ninety seven -

_My designation is -_

Wake up wake up wake -

 

(Rage, and the dying of the light.)

 

* * *

 

 

Crackling light slid in between her closed eyelids, burning her retinas. She gasped, squeezing them tightly shut, feeling something wet on her face. _Thirty-two point oh nine seven eight._ The voice still echoed in the air around her, steady and strong and without fear. I have to wake up, she thought dimly. I'm not offline yet, I have to wake back up. I have to help him.

For those few seconds that lasted lifetimes, she lay there, unable to move, unable to look. The coldness that sluiced through her veins slowly dissipated, leaving numbness in its wake. She took a breath, then another. _Alive._ She was still alive.

And she had to get up. She had to look, she had to make sure it had worked. She'd been screaming, hadn't she? Wasn't that her voice she still heard, ringing in her ears, so cold and full of fury?

 _What worked? What was I trying to do? I can't remember._ There was nothing but the voice and her fear. Not for herself, but for someone else. She'd been trying to warn him -

Abruptly she felt the need to vomit. Acid burned the back of her throat, her nostrils. She kept it down, barely, sucking in slow breaths. Pain lingered in her limbs, words hanging around her like banners without a breeze. They dove deep down inside her, searing her throat and eyes and chest. _My designation is Prowl._

No, it wasn't. It couldn't be. _His_ name is Prowl. Was. It _was_. She had felt that calm, unbroken rage that buried itself in her chest, refusing to let go, and had panicked. She had forgotten herself. _He_ had forgotten himself.

God, her head hurt. So, for some reason, did her hand. When she clenched it, a burning sensation shot through her arm. She decided not to do that again.

She leaned forward, eyes still closed, seeing it all play out again against the backs of her lids. Dimly she felt the edges of the chassis biting into her skin, felt the rumble of a spark beneath her, but for the life of her she couldn't move.

The lightning was gone now. Cautiously she cracked open her eyes, blinking slowly. Took a few deep breaths to steady herself. As she did, somewhere in front of her came a hiss, a venting sound. Something moved beneath her, expanding then receding. A slow, steady rocking motion, like she was on a ship. She bit her lip, and lifted her hands up to steady herself, taking care to keep pressure off her left one, bracing against the walls of metal that lay spread to either side of her. Warm metal, like it had been out in the sun for hours. She had been freezing before, she was sure of it.

As she ducked down to gain some leverage, she finally saw what her eyes had touched on. Even in the artificial light she could see the seams glittering, the chamber filled to capacity with an active spark. It beat a soft, subtle rhythm that slowly deepened as she watched and felt her own heart speed up. _Barricade._ This was Barricade she had been working on, they'd broken him, and she was -

She choked on her own breath, mind and chest stuttering with the effort to remember herself. As she panted she felt the rumble of vents once more, keeping pace with her. Frantically she clawed till she was upright, and stared down the length of him.

His head was turned from the light as if shielding his optics - no, they'd lain him that way, she was sure of it; he couldn't have _moved._ Again the bulk beneath her shifted and vibrated, warmth seeping in through her overalls. Blinking rapidly to remove the spots from her eyes, she slid clumsily off to one side of the Con and reached out to hit the operating light. The room descended into an imperfect darkness. The only illumination was shed from the open chassis and from his faceplates.

That couldn’t be right. She was obviously still seeing things. Fumbling, she climbed back onto him to close up his chest armor, smoothing it back down into the rest of him. For a moment she simply sat there, leaning into him, feeling the heat of him soak into her skin. Despite herself she felt her muscles loosening. Lifting a shaking hand she scrubbed at her eyes, willing the afterimages to go away. She dropped her hand to spread it across his shoulder, and opened her eyes again.

Her brain stalled. It took a few seconds to realize that she was looking into brightly lit optics, glowing white-hot, and rather confused looking.

 

_To Be Continued In Part Two…_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two will be up in just a few days, after i've smoothed out a couple of scenes.


	7. ...Who See With Blinding Sight   2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His optics too were without color, glowing white, throwing shadow over shadow upon his face plates. He might have looked like a cutout, all negative spaces and blank places, but she watched, and she knew the difference. He was alive as she was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you guys think! It feels a little off to me; i might go back and fix up a few things later.  
> Chap title is (c) Dylan Thomas; quote (c) Florence + the Machine.

**'** _Cause all the walls of dreaming, they were torn wide open; finally it seemed that the spell was broken -_  


 

::systems online. Commence automated systems check ::

 

_Evaluate surroundings. Take stock of weapons and defendable positions. Hold. Wait for backup._

_No time. If we are to succeed, the mission must go forward. Proceed with operation alone._

_The echo of vocal processors. Laughter. Blaster fire. Static. Silence._  
  
  
  
Darkness.

 

::Baseline systems check: Weapons capability at 6.1%  
                                        Motor functions at 13.2%  
                                        Audio receptors at 62%  
                                        Visual receptors at 19.5% ::

Audio input is above average, yet there is nothing to process. There is the occasional echo that reverberates off the surrounding metal constructs, but they are dim and far away. Not even the sound of an online processor is perceived.

::Establishing communications: system booting ::

There is a light source somewhere above and to the left. It is just enough to create shadows, throwing already impaired vision into a tumult. None of the shapes make sense, though diagnostics scramble to make patterns in the flickering glow.

::system report: comm. unable to boot. Retry? ::  
                         _Affirmative._  
                         ::Comm. system booting ::

If it were possible to reach out and amplify the light source, it would have been done. As it is there is no feasible way to take stock of the surroundings, in the current situation. Multiple attempts have been made to move outward, to twitch a limb, rotate the neck, anything. All attempts have met with failure.

::system report: comm. is unresponsive. Command? ::  
                         _Stand by. Update on systems at 3 klik intervals._

Broken, static-filled sensory files are attempting to download, even as other systems continue to boot: A swinging light fixture high above. A dark, hulking shape in front. The squeal of tools being laid against living metal. Aching, continuous pain in the shoulders and back. No floor beneath the pedes. Swinging slowly out of sync from the light, shadows clashing and flickering across the bare room. Someone's laughter. _Rage._

_My inter-stream-stream data code isss thirty-two point oh nnnine seven eight. My rank issshhhhkkk -ond. My designation -_

The data files are heavily corrupted, and need to be scrubbed. The mission. The mission is vital. They are depending on him to succeed.

What mission?

Pain slowly creeps through the processor, building to a dull, heavy throb at the back of the helm. The files are insistent, opening to white noise and painful sensory reminders, one ragged nanosecond at a time.

The laughter continues, ringing in audio receptors. _He's not going to break, is he._

The cold prick of a large-bore needle at the back of the helm.

_My designation is_

 Darkness.

 

* * *

 

They sat there watching each other. Slowly she blinked, twice, three times, each time fully expecting to be hunkered back over his open chest cavity, watching herself tighten another bolt, feeling unrelenting cold metal on her legs. It never happened. Her hands still glided over smooth, seamless armor that was warm and alive to the touch, like an idling engine.

Suddenly breathless and very aware of her position - sprawled across a fully cognizant Decepticon's chest like she was soaking up a tan - she reared back, scrambling to put some distance between them.

It didn't quite work the way she wanted. She fell back onto her rear, still straddling his chest, and tried scooting back. She came down to his hips, and stopped cold. It was unfortunate that she never made it past his legs, because he chose that moment to try sitting up. She fell back into his lap as he slowly pushed himself up onto his forearms. Blindly she clutched at him so as not to fall off, left hand spasming in pain as she did so.

She was aware that her mouth was hanging open, but couldn't be bothered with it. She was too busy watching him look down at her, somewhat bemusedly. He took a cursory glance at his chest and arms, chin dipping as he examined himself. She should have moved as soon as his optics were off of her, but she couldn't find the will to stand, or even inch back. She was stuck.

Then his gaze rose back up to where she sat sprawled in his lap, and a brow rose. "Are you supposed to be there?"

She fell off the table.

Distantly she heard him say something in Cybertronian - it sounded like a curse - and then the whispering of metal on metal as he sat up. Groaning, she staggered up to her feet, her left hand throbbing like mad from where she had caught herself - _that's right, the spikes, one cut me_ \- and her hip feeling bruised. She busied herself by dusting off her legs with her good hand, lingering over them so she wouldn't have to look back up. It also served to hide the shaking in her limbs as she doubled over herself, studying with great interest the tips of her sneakers.

From her vantage point staring at the floor she could see his toecaps come into view. _Pit, he's going to turn me into slag for touching him, I am so dead, I need to_ move _._

So move she did – agonizingly, as if every movement were her last - pulling herself upright, until she was face-to-torso with her Decepticon. _Not_ towards _him, you moron! Go, go get Ratchet or Optimus right freaking now –_

But she couldn’t, no matter what her head told her feet. Something stronger than fear had hold of her, tugging at her chin until she had craned her neck up to look into his face. _You did this_ , that same something whispered. _You woke him up._

 _Yes, but_ who _exactly did you wake up? Barricade, or something else?_

Breathless, she dug her nails into her palms, her fingers absently pressing into the fresh wound. The pain sharpened her senses, giving an edge to the fear, the anticipation. In front of her, the Decepticon pulled away from where his hip had leaned against the berth, turning so that both hands braced him from behind. Even in the darkness she could tell he looked frighteningly unsteady, and for a second she was certain he was going to topple over. He had obviously stood up too fast, something she had experience in. Finally Mikaela found enough air in her lungs to exhale, and she slowly unwound her hands as she did so; seeing him so off balance calmed her nerves a little.

Suddenly his frame slumped back against the table, as if moving had exhausted him. She frowned up at him, consternation pushing back the fear until Mikaela the Medic stood in her place. As he ducked his chin and ran an unsteady hand across his chest, she took a step forward to berate him. He didn't seem to notice, focused as he was on himself. Then she hove into his line of vision, just beneath him, and his head shot back up, optics flashing as he met her gaze. Her courage dried up faster than a corpse in the Mojave.

The Cybertronian leaned forward, optics narrowing. For the longest few seconds of her life, Mikaela and he watched each other. She clenched her teeth and fists until she was sure she would shatter, but all he did was study her. Then, slowly, he released his death-grip on the edge of the berth, and, moving as one unsure of their own body, slid down until he was on his heels. He caught himself on the sturdy bulk of the berth behind him. The entire time his gaze remained intent on her, not seeming to notice his own discomfort.

They were now face to face; kneeling, he was only half a foot taller than her. She forced herself to stay still, and not back away as instinct warned her to. The only illumination now came from the soft glow of distant monitor displays and his optics. The darkness was a small comfort; indeed now that he was online, his armor, already black as pitch, seemed to soak up the light and snuff it out; it reminded her far too much of her dreams. But with one hand braced on the bench and another on the floor, looking so uncomfortable, some of the menace left him. But he was still staring. That was a problem.

Despite every intention not to, she balked as he raised a hand from the floor towards her. It was only in the slowness of the gesture that she saw it for what it was;. he was as wary as she was. Of frightening her? Of being injured? It was difficult to tell. Mikaela forced her chin up, throwing bravado up like a shield. She wasn’t running, not now. He hadn’t pulverized her yet, so she had reason to hope. _Yeah, and maybe you’re just suicidal._ The rogue thought made her choke back what would have been a hysterical giggle, and her mouth quivered. That voice sounded suspiciously like Ratchet.

Then the fingers reached out to just brush against her hand, the left one; the shock of the warm metal shut down any urge to laugh. Her eyes shot back to his face, where he still watched her. It was hard to see his expression, but his optics were narrowed again and she wasn't sure what that meant. His long digits still rested against the back of her hand, tips just barely brushing against her.

"You're injured. Did the fall hurt you?"

Her brain stalled. It registered the timbre of his voice; the depth of it reverberated all the way through his fingers into her hand, forcing hers to curl instinctively. The words themselves took a moment longer to sink in.

"Oh. Oh, no, this…is from before. I'm fine. Thanks."

 _And you're an idiot_ , she thought to herself dryly. _Thanks,_ indeed.

He was leaning forward again, _too far_ she thought, and then she felt him reel as he tried to regain his equilibrium. _Note to self, does not know own limits._ She'd have to remember that later. Then she heard him hiss, in pain or something else, she wasn't sure, but her body reacted before her mind could and she stepped closer, hands reaching out to catch him by his outstretched arm. The sheer weight of him caused her to stagger, and she gasped in surprise and pain as her wounded hand tightened around his forearm. He caught himself, thankfully just before crushing her, and this time she was sure he was cursing under his breath.

With her clumsy help, he managed to get settled again. She could just barely make out his shape from where he rested on one knee and one fist on the floor, like a knight ready to take vows. Then she realized that she was still holding him, both arms wrapped around one of his, leaning against him to keep him (herself) steady. She pried herself loose, missing the warmth as soon as she stepped away into the chill of the lab.

From this close she could see the set of his jaw, the way his mouth had tightened. It very closely resembled embarrassment, and despite herself she laughed, a short exhalation of breath. “You've just got to slow it down a bit. Find your sea legs first.”

Looking startled, he glanced down at said legs in confusion. “This isn't the sea, is it? It's…wetter, I believe. And full of fish.” His helm tilted back as he examined her again. “You're not a fish.”

“Not really, no. And it’s a saying, a metaphor. You don’t need to take it literally.”

A pause as he took that in. Then his optics brightened. “Sea legs – the illusion of motion felt on dry land after spending time at sea. I must first adjust to motion before I am able to ambulate. ”

It was Mikaela’s turn to hesitate. “Did you just Google that?”

“It's from Wikipedia.”

“…Right. Um, for future reference, use a dictionary instead of that. Anything from wiki is questionable.”

She took a deep breath, examining and discarding various things to say. He broke the silence for her, his helm tilting down to study her hand where she cradled it in front of her. "You're still hurt."

"Um….yeah. Still. It's going to take a while to heal, you know." She supposed he didn't know, but whatever.

Still staring. "I didn't do that, did I?"

Part of her hesitated, but she told him the truth anyway. "Kind of, yeah. I got stuck while I was working on you - " she waved a hand at him vaguely. "You know, fixing you up."

He looked like he did know. He glanced away for a moment, turning to one side. She swallowed back her unease, but somehow she didn't think he was upset with her. He cut a glance back at her, tilting his chin thoughtfully. "Forgive me. I wasn't aware."

Everything she could have said right then caught in her throat, and she swallowed heavily. "It's - it's not your fault. You were pretty unconscious. All the way unconscious, I mean. You couldn't have known."

"Couldn't you heal it?"

She blinked, confused. "I can smother it in Neosporin and slap a band aid on later. I'll be fine." She had no idea why she was reassuring him again, except that he looked like he needed it.

This was _not_ how she had pictured their first conversation going.

A quiet moment passed, and then he ducked his head to look down at himself again, a hand rising to run across his sleek, immaculate chest. Dark talons swept across his shoulders, his arms, inspecting every rivet and seam that held him together in the dark. As he passed once more across his chest, directly over his spark, he stilled. Mikaela took it all in silently, the unease taking a backseat to that other sensation, the one that had pulled her head up instead of pushing her out the door.

Slowly his fingers curled into a fist, resting on his chest. He kept his chin tucked in, but she could still see the furrow of his brow ridges in the dim light. Licking her dry lips, she edged a little closer. To do what, she wasn't sure. She felt like she was being reeled in, not entirely under her own willpower. Hesitantly she reached, the way he had done, and rested her fingers over his - carefully, as his own fingers were edged with very fine blades. "Hey…it's okay, y'know? It's going to be fine." Really, she couldn't have come up with anything more inane. He rolled his shoulders in response, a breath shuddering in his vents.

Finally he spoke, his voice low and subdued. "How is this possible?"

She bit her lip. "How is what possible?" There were too many things he could be referring to, each topic more volatile than the last. She had to be careful.

He wrenched his gaze away from the floor to look her in the eye. "How am I still alive?" His optics searched her face intently. "You're a - a -"

She let him figure the word out for himself; she was doing enough hand-holding as it was. Finally he continued. "An organic. You're mortal. How did you do this?"

"Ah, I didn't really do that much, I just….put you back together." She bit her tongue before she could utter one more 'you know?' Because he really didn't. She really didn’t, either, when she stopped to think about it.

He went on as if she hadn't spoken. “You must be something else, something powerful.” He leaned back a little. “You're a god, then.”

 _That_ woke her up. “ _Whoa_. Hey, no way. I’m flattered as all hell, but no. I’m just a –“

“Forgive me.” He scowled, correcting himself. “A _goddess_. You're female.”

Palm met forehead. _I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a higher-functioning being._ “Ok, back up that thought train. First off, I really am human. You scanned me; you should know. Second, it’s called science. No fiction or higher powers involved.” _I think._

He shook his head, adamant. “No. The human species is a limited one; you're barely even flight capable. This planet doesn't contain the technology necessary to facilitate this event. You gave me life; therefore, you are a goddess.”

She supposed she should take umbrage at that dig at their 'flight capability." But she was stuck on the fact that he sounded so proud of himself to have figured it out.

"I only fixed you; _therefore_ , I am only a mechanic. I didn't - _create_ you. You were already alive, I just took some crazy glue and put your pieces back together. I _also_ had some help, just FYI."

He didn't seem to find this argument viable. He shook his head adamantly. "I was - " again, he had to search for the appropriate term. "I was nowhere. Oblivion. There was only the dark. That isn't my definition of _alive."_ He made an expansive gesture towards his body. "Now I'm here. I have no idea how I got from one place to the other, except for you."

"Do you…remember where you were, before the dark?"

That made him pause. It stretched out in the small space between them, and Mikaela shifted uneasily in the silence. Swallowing past the strange sense of guilt, she pulled away, moving back so they were once more face to face. He watched her carefully, what she could see of his face devoid of expression. Finally, his voice broke through the dark, a mere thread of sound.

"I don't remember. Somewhere I didn't want to be."

_He's not going to break, is he._

_It doesn't seem so._

_Traitor. Turn-coat. Backstabber. Judas._

The words rung hollow in her head. She couldn't look at him, then; the space between them might as well have been the Pacific. Again the thought came to her: _just who did I wake up?_

Eventually she drew a ragged breath, wiping at the moisture in her eyes angrily. It wouldn't do for a goddess to show weakness in front of her creation, would it?

Any more than she already had. She curled her left hand slowly into a fist, feeling the sting of the impaled flesh coil up her arm. She'd best go get Ratchet. He was going to need to run diagnostics and tests and make sure everything was -

"Stop. Don't go." A hand shot out of the darkness, talons plucking at her sleeve. She froze in place, half-turned to go summon her mentor. Now she couldn't move if she wanted to. The prick of his talons through the material of her overalls had an icy fear roiling in her gut, more from the abruptness of it than anything else. She didn't _really_ think he would hurt her. Probably not. She hoped.

Jerking her head in a cautious nod, she turned back to him, shifting on her feet. She was tired, she realized. Tired enough to fall asleep where she stood, if she let herself. But he was still looking - staring, she really should mention how rude that was - and she didn't dare pull her focus away from him again. Slowly she reached around and curled her fingers around his where they still rested on her arm, easing him off of her. His hand hovered, even after she had dropped hers; she saw him blink. "You're warm." He sounded bemused.

She blinked back at him. There have been quite enough double takes tonight, thank you, she thought wearily, even as she responded. "You noticed? We actually run a bit cooler than you guys - high-output engines and energon activating at a higher temperature, and all that." None of the other Cybertronians had ever bothered to mention it, save Ratchet and at one point early on, Bumblebee. Suddenly she missed the sunny little mech with a ferocity that made her throat ache. None of that sunny-ness in here. Everything was so dark.

Stifling a sob, she sank down onto the freezing floor. Ratchet always kept the thermostat so low in here; it felt just like a hospital. Even through her coveralls she could feel the cold seeping in, numbing her bones.

From this position he towered over her once more. His hand had curled into a fist where it rested on the floor, close by. She didn't bother looking up at him, instead burying her head in her knees, taking deep, calming breaths.

She didn't see his hand when it came back up to hover over her; they stayed that way, frozen in the dark, for a long while. Eventually she pulled her head back up, shaking back her hair - it had come loose from its braid by now, and hung in limp hanks around her shoulders and face. Her face raised, she saw the hand, talons inches from her face. Gulping, she eyed him, leaning back. There was no thought to her words. "If you're going to kill me, you'd better do it now before anyone wakes up."

The hand was gone so fast she didn't even see it move. In the dark she could see his shoulders hunch, and his head bowed. "I don't want to hurt you. I wanted you to stay." She imagined from anyone else that was fresh out of stasis and wanting the comforts of home, that would have been edged with a whine. But his voice was rough with some emotion she couldn't name, and spoken to the floor.

A fresh bout of tears loomed - oh, god, I went and hurt his feelings, I really need to work on my bedside manner - and she made an effort to keep her voice even and tear-free, so as not to alarm him. "I'm sorry. It's just been a very long - " day, week, year, "- night. I don't know what I'm saying." And I have no idea what I'm doing, or even who the hell you _are_.

He sighed low, air from his vents brushing against the top of her head. Slowly he spoke, as if weighing each individual word as it was said. "Then, if it doesn't trouble you, I would appreciate it if you stayed."

"In the dark?"

He vented, tipping his face to the dark ceiling. "That's right, you can't see in the dark."

"Not so much. I never did like carrots."

She'd confused him again, if the silence was anything to go by. Sighing, she made herself scoot a little closer, until her sneaker-clad toe just touched his. She reached out to where she thought his arm was, patting him. "It's fine; I was joking. It was a joke. Human stuff."

"Ah. So these carrots make humans see in the dark." This close she could feel the vibrations from his voice rumble in his chest, all the way down to where their feet connected, making her toes tingle. It reminded her of Optimus, and she couldn't help but smile a little. He caught the expression, ducking his head until he could meet her eyes. "Or not. That's the joke, isn’t it?"

The weight that had settled across her shoulders eased a little, and she let herself smile tiredly at him. "Yes. That's the joke."

 

* * *

 

 

She wrapped up her hands quickly, dousing the bandages in antiseptic that also held a numbing agent; her pride refused to let her ask him for assistance, so he watched in silence as she fumbled with the roll of dressing. As she did she filled the blank spaces with chatter, not wanting to let her thoughts wander to anything that didn't pertain to the immediate situation. At some point she had to get up again and fumble around on Ratchet's desk for a PADD; she'd been in the middle of explaining what an alt mode was - Primus, he didn't even know what he _was_ \- and realized she was going to need some visuals. She had been going to settle back down on the floor in front of him, but he was already standing. "Your temperature has dropped. I don't think being down there is very good for you."

"Oh, so now you're a medic?"

"Am I?" And there she went again, confusing him. Sighing to herself, she clutched the PADD close and was about to turn to grab a chair, assuring him over her shoulder that no, he didn't have a medic's license as far as she knew, but he had already extended one hand out to her, beckoning. For a minute she eyed the talons that winked darkly at her in the light of his optics, but she swallowed her nerves and stepped closer. As if only now realizing the problem, he stared at his hands as well, the wicked bladed fingers glittering in the dark. After a moment's hesitation he flexed them, and the blades retracted seamlessly, leaving behind long, elegant fingers. His hands were enormous, but nowhere near the size of Optimus or Ratchet; the palm would fit nicely over her head, if he so wished. She tried not to think about that. Thrice her hand size, she decided. That sounded safer. He looked back up at her, hand still extended.

"Heat rises, I think. You should be up high." So he _was_ going to pick her up. It was a little like stepping into a tiger's cage; she steeled herself, and let him do what he would.

She wound up with the PADD cradled in one arm as the other wrapped around his shoulder; she curled up in the crook of his arm, his other hand coming up to steady her against him. She hadn't realized that he was right; she was colder than she had thought. The warmth was a welcome relief, and she leaned into him, letting him take away the chill that had settled inside of her. They were all warm, as she had stated previously, but she'd hardly ever taken the time to sit still and enjoy it.

The ride was over too soon, and he settled her onto the berth he had previously been stationed on. As soon as he stepped away she was shivering again, her hands aching from use, but she gritted her teeth and told herself to stuff it. She had things to do, ex-Decepticons to indoctrinate.

He stationed himself beside her, leaning onto the table with his elbows. Surreptitiously she tried to scoot closer, until her thigh lay alongside one forearm. There, that was better. Ignoring his narrowed gaze - she was starting to recognize the expression as considering, not annoyed - she flicked on the screen, blinking in the sudden light. As she raised her eyes back up to his, she realized that she could see his face.

An unsettled feeling swooped in her stomach, something almost like embarrassment. It wasn't that she hadn't seen it before…she'd just never seen it when he was _awake._ She caught the minutiae of his expressions, watching as his cheek plates rose and slanted, making his optics narrow, the way he angled his jaw and canted his mouth. _Considering_ her. So that's what it looked like.

He was painted in monochrome, from helm to toecaps, but the sharp angle of his chin, the straight blade of his nose, caught the light from the PADD and refracted like obsidian. His optics too were without color, glowing white, throwing shadow over shadow upon his face plates. He might have looked like a cutout, all negative spaces and blank places, but she watched, and she knew the difference. He was alive as she was.

Suddenly she remembered her hands smoothing hollows into the casting mold for that face; the jutting, obstinate jaw, the wide, angular cheeks. She'd run her fingers across the brow, ran her knuckles down the side of his face. She could probably do the same thing now with her eyes closed, and never miss a beat. The throat, the shoulders, the chest...all that armor she'd laid her hands on and shaped. All the way down to those bladed fingers she so feared.

She leaned back, staring into colorless optics, and wondered: why did I make you the way I did? Is it possible to know someone you've never met?

She realized she was staring far longer than was appropriate. She realized she didn't care. Past lives aside, everything she saw belonged to her. It had taken a while to sink in, but now the revelation left her breathless, and she couldn't tear her eyes away. He regarded her levelly, seeming unfazed by her scrutiny. Eventually he tilted his head back, the shadows reforming across his features as he shifted. "What is it?"

The sound of his voice from so close startled her. Hugging the PADD to her chest unconsciously, she shook her head. "Nothing…I just…" She leaned forward, eyes traveling down the line of his neck, to where his pauldrons curved across his broad shoulders. Off into the darkness below the berth, where his armor lay in scales down his back. Mounted behind his shoulders his two wheels sat, the fortified rubber sheathing the wickedly sharp barbs of circular saw blades; flails, Ironhide had told her they were called. The weapons threw the lower part of him into shadow, but she still saw it in her mind's eye, mentally traversing the edges and contours of his sides, down the long clean lines of his legs. Of course much of it would be rearranged once he scanned the Monster, but still. _She'd_ done all of that.

Finally she leaned back, sighing quietly in satisfaction. He met her eyes, looking somewhat bemused. Then he leaned back, pulling an arm away from the table top, and glanced down at himself much like he had done earlier, trying to see what she saw. The sweeping angles of his helm caught her eye as he ducked his head; before she realized what she was doing she reached out and curled her fingers around the back of his audio receptor, holding him in place. He froze where he stood, head lowered submissively as she ran her fingers down the faceguard that followed the outline of his jaw, letting her hands wander down the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of energon rushing through him.

She inched closer, letting the PADD fall to the counter top, and reached out to cup her other hand around his jaw, turning his face to the side. He obeyed wordlessly, watching her from the corner of his optics. That he was so docile in her grasp, so pliant and willing, sent a giddy rush through her. With a flick of her fingers she tilted his chin back, baring his throat to her. The sinuous line of cords and plating that marched down the line of his throat was as fascinating as it had been when he was in stasis; more so now that she could see them flex and bunch as she stroked a hand down them.

The echo of his breath reverberated through her hands, making her wounded palm ache. She pressed down harder at the base of his throat, feeling the pulse deepen. From the corner of her vision she caught the motion of one hand slowly curling into a fist, so she let her hand fall, letting her fingers drag against his chest, catching at the seam of his pectoral armor. "Sorry," she murmured, not sorry at all.

Slowly his chin dropped, leveling his gaze at her. As he did the light from the forgotten PADD abruptly went dark, powering down into sleep mode, and everything was thrown into shadow. She jumped at the unexpected change, catching her breath. Her heart shouldn't be jumping around like that, she told herself sternly. It's just the dark. Nothing to be afraid of.

But she could no longer make out the nuances of his expression, only the slits of his optics as he regarded her. The arm he'd left loose when he'd turned to look down at himself moved; she felt the long, hard contours of his forearm slide against her other thigh now, encasing her between them. He shifted until he was face to face with her, leaning in until they couldn't have been more than an inch or two apart.

She realized that she was about to say his name, and her breath stuttered. Sleep-drunk, she thought to herself. I'm half awake and nothing feels real. That was the only reason she could fathom that had made her act so boldly. Suddenly she realized she was shivering despite the heat, her teeth chattering. From this close she could just make out a scowl. "You're still cold. And fatigued."

Abruptly the strange, heady sensation left her, and she was just a girl again, not a goddess. She slumped where she sat, rocking forward until her forehead met his shoulder, and let her eyes close. The curve of his neck pressed against her cheek; she realized dimly that he was leaning against her, as well. "You need to recharge. Lessons later."

She made a sleepy noise of agreement, letting the rumble of his voice lull her. Beneath her he shifted, hands sliding against her back. "Up there," she muttered into his shoulder, flapping a hand in the vague direction of the loft. She slung her arms haphazardly around his neck, feeling his own tighten around her and then he was lifting her, pulling her off of the berth and against him. She squeaked and dangled for a moment before tightening her hold. She didn't have the brain power to even be embarrassed that she was being lugged off to bed in this fashion; she could be humiliated all she wanted tomorrow, when she was awake.

"Will those stairs hold me?" He murmured into her ear. She nodded wordlessly, and before she realized what he was doing he had pulled up her legs and tucked her in the crook of his opposing arm. At least he had finally found his sea legs. She smirked tiredly into his shoulder.

She barely remembered him setting her on her feet so she could unlock the doors to her loft. She did remember the warmth leaving her as she left him behind in the doorway, fumbling her way to her small bedroom. She turned around, leaning heavily on the door, blinking at him from where he stood, arms crossed, at the threshold to her domain. He was a shape, a darker shadow against shadows, save for the optics. Suddenly it was too much; the past few hours felt like some bizarre dream, and tomorrow she would wake in the real world. Her Decepticon would once more be a lifeless piece of machinery on his berth, spark dim and dormant. Hot tears pricked at her eyes at the thought, and she shuddered and looked away.

He must have seen them, for finally he came into the room, moving soundlessly towards her. The faint blue glow from her equipment displays was just enough to let her see his face as he came closer. She breathed deep and let her head fall back against the cool metal of her door, letting her eyes fall closed. "You should go back downstairs, back to the lab. Ratchet won't be happy you're awake." Her voice was hoarse with sleeplessness.

"Something's wrong. Why are your eyes watering?"

Ugh. She swiped at them half-heartedly. "It's nothing, I'm just really tired. I need to sleep. So do you. Big day tomorrow. Today. I don't know." Now she was rambling like a stoner. Great. More tears threatened, and she screwed her eyes shut, letting them fall.

"Is your hand still bothering you?"

She'd all but forgotten about it. "Yes."

A beat of silence. "Fascinating."

"What?"

"Your pulse elevated. You're lying."

Oh, for - "I don't know why I'm crying, okay? It's just something we humans do when we're confused."

He seemed to consider this for a moment. She hoped her answer would satisfy him, because she was officially off the clock now.

Suddenly there was something against her face, brushing her skin. Warm, living metal that scraped gently across her cheeks, scrubbing away the tears. Her eyes slid open. He was too close, as usual, only inches between them.

"Too many variables," he murmured, thumb hovering above her cheek. "It's difficult to tell between the different types of tears, save for the pheromones."

She snorted. "Most guys can't do it, so don't sweat it."

"…another idiom, I take it."

"Mm." She rolled her head away from him, blinking hard. She saw his hand fall, and then he was tugging her forward, away from the door so he could open it. He figured that one out easily enough, and it swung out behind them.

Before she could turn around, she spotted the luminescent numbers of a clock she had stashed on top of her workroom TV, and groaned. "I might as well just stay up 'til it's light; there's no point in going to sleep now."

She saw him nod from out the corner of her eye. "It's late. Or early. I haven't figured that one out yet. You should have been recharging hours ago." So saying, he gently grasped her by the shoulders - he was getting more comfortable touching her - and turned her around, propelling her through the doorway into her bedroom.

It struck her at last, how strange he sounded. He'd been doing it all night, but she had been too overwhelmed to notice. None of the other Cybertronians had worked contractions into their speech until later on; most of them had sounded so stiff and formal when they first landed. But here he was, sounding…what, normal? _Human._

She wanted to ask him how he had learned to talk like that, why, when. She'd only _just_ finished the recoding. How was it possible he'd acclimated this quickly? And what other surprises did he carry around in his processor that had yet to be discovered? A flash of memory came - of burning cold, of a voice, strong and sure - but she shoved it back down again. Ratchet would be able to figure this out. At the thought of her mentor, rummaging around through her Decepticon's head like a card file, rearranging and filing and removing things at whim, she gave an involuntary shudder. Not a machine. He's not a machine, he's a person. What right do we have to mess with his head? Optimus _said_. He said it would be alright. It was for the greater good.

She realized then she had never spoken his name, not to his face. Maybe she was afraid of what he would say.

_He's not going to break, is he._

_It doesn't seem so._

_Rage and pain and fear; so, so much fear. Still she presses on, the rage fueling her, reminding her, barricading her within her own identity._

_Rage. Rage against -_

She spun away from him abruptly, bile rising. She barely made it to the washroom in time before emptying the meager contents of her stomach, retching, clutching at the sides of the cold porcelain. She gagged and spat, tasting only bile, wishing to God she'd eaten dinner at least. Her nose and throat and eyes were all on fire. She moaned weakly, letting her forehead rest on the edge of the basin.

She could feel him behind her; he'd probably been there the whole time. Welcome to the world of human bodily functions, she thought wretchedly. She was too tired to be humiliated…much. She stayed where she was, panting weakly as she gathered herself.

Eventually she made her way off the cold, hard tile, clumsily cleaning herself up and finding a shirt for bed. Through it all he watched her, silent and on the alert. He didn't ask questions, nor did he appear disgusted or upset, for which she was pathetically grateful. She was too overwrought to even bother shutting the bathroom door to change. Not like it mattered, she thought wanly. It was all a matter of perspective, and his and hers were on completely different planes. Naked girls didn't mean the same thing to him that they did to Sam.

Well, fuck, there she went making herself miserable all over again.              

He kept watch in the doorway as she wallowed beneath her covers. She pulled the threadbare comforter up to her chin, eyeing him sleepily. _So this is it. Tomorrow I get to wake up and be yelled at. Yay, me._ She groaned and buried her face in the pillow, wishing it was all over with and this could be tomorrow night already. Even as her thoughts meandered, her eyes fell slowly closed, as if weights had been attached to the lids. She was asleep in seconds. So she never felt it when moved forward to brush the hair back away from her open mouth, and pull the blanket down past her toes so nothing could be seen. If she had been awake, she would have asked how he'd known to do that. How he'd known that she hated having her feet uncovered while she slept, or that hair didn't belong in one's mouth.

But she wasn't, so she didn't, and instead dreamed dreams infused with the smell of blood and leaking energon; of blue eyes, and a city: lucent green spires reflecting eternal twilight, shattering beneath the onslaught of screaming engines. Of her mother's voice reading poetry to her from one of the books she'd left behind, eyes no longer bright blue, but glittering Decepticon red. She woke with tears on her cheeks and words on her tongue, but none she could remember in the moments after.

 

* * *

 

 

Downstairs, Ratchet was hollering in Cybertronian. _Ohmygod that actually happened,_ she realized, and all but fell out of bed. Optimus' voice joined the din, and her heart shot to her mouth as she fumbled for her brush and a clean shirt. _If I ever get to so much as look at a timing belt again, I'll consider myself lucky._ With that, she flung herself out the door to go face the wrath of her employer, feeling as she went the strange vertigo of déjà vu. She did seem to keep pissing off the authority figures in her life, even if half the time she had no idea how. It was a talent, she decided.

"I would just like to state for the record that I have no idea how it happened, and it's not my fault," were the first words out of her mouth as she descended the stairs. Several sets of optics and eyes alike all swung in her direction, burning holes in her forehead. Okay…there were a lot more people down here than she'd realized. There was the colonel standing by Ironhide, both their pieces out and aimed in Barricade's general direction, and faces like thunderclouds. Optimus, obviously Ratchet, a couple of Sergeants and oh hey look, there was Alexis and _three other wingmen_ by the doors. It was a party.

And there was Barricade, awake, standing with his back to his berth: talons unsheathed and armor bristling. Even over the noise Ratchet was making, she could hear an ominous rumble coming from the Decepticon's corner, and she hastened her speed, jumping the last two steps. Lennox cut his eyes toward her as she drew nearer, and pointed an accusing finger her way. "Lucy," he stated flatly, "you got some _'splainin'_ to do."

She swore she heard a collective eye roll from around the room. The sound that really worried her, though, was the snarl building in Barricade's engines. "We'll get to you in a moment, Mikaela," Ratchet snapped, his attention held by the Decepticon as well. "First, we need to contain _that_."

The talons were brandished; the metal sung a deadly song as he flexed them, crouching, as if ready to spring at any moment. Maybe he didn't appreciate being called a _that_ , as if he were some particularly stubborn stain that needed to be scrubbed out.

At the Decepticon's gesture everyone's weapons twitched. Mikaela's heart had leapt into her throat at the sound those blades made - these military men wouldn’t hesitate to mow him down if he so much as exhaled wrong - and strangling a yelp she hurried to stand in front of the Colonel. In front of his military-issue assault rifle. That was loaded and had a finger on its trigger.

Everyone was staring again. Primus, people were rude.

"Okay, everyone just…calm down. _Mikaela."_ The Colonel had lost a little color when she did what she did, and he tried sidestepping her to keep Barricade in his sights. She veered with him. Again to the other side. "Dammit, girl, what is wrong with you?!"

"He's not a threat, okay? See, he's fine." Slowly she backed up, trying hard to ignore the fact that her friend was aiming a loaded gun at her. A few steps back and she was right in front of Barricade. With deliberate, slow movements, she turned to him, to find him staring down the Colonel with white-hot optics. With one hand she gestured to him to _put that goddamned rifle away_ , her eyes not leaving Barricade. Gently she brushed her other hand against his forearm, and with a supreme effort he dragged his optics away from the man to glance down at her. The rumble in his chest subsided for a brief moment.

"Hey...we're all on the same side, remember? Look at them; that's the symbol I showed you. It means we're the good guys. All of us."

He cut a glance at the men and mechs across the bay. "If we're on the same side, why are they pointing their guns at me?"

That was a very good question. Mikaela ignored Ratchet's surprised grunt at hearing Barricade speak, keeping her attention on the 'Con. "Right now they think you're a threat. We have to show them you're not."

He flicked his fingers in response, metal hissing. She amended her statement. "To _them_. Now can you please put those away? Guys, come _on_." She rounded on the soldiers, namely Ironhide and Will. The Colonel's rifle was dipping a little, but Ironhide's cannons still whirred angrily. While she was relatively certain even those cannons wouldn't cause more than a scratch to Barricade's Adamantium armor, it would definitely piss him off. Time to lay on the charm, Mickey.

Beside her she could hear Barricade sheathing his finger-blades, and let a very small part of her relax. The group in general seemed to let out a collective breath, except for Ironhide. She met his optics, widening her eyes and pulling on her sweetest, most winsome face. "I know you could get off a shot apiece with those things before he even jumps," she cajoled, "so I don't know why you're so worked up. You can see he's willing put away his weapons. Could you maybe just…ease up on the trigger a little?"

From behind everyone she saw the Captain rolling her eyes, but ignored her, keeping herself focused on the weapons specialist with the really big cannons. He himself cocked a brow ridge at her, knowing exactly what she was up to. But then she heard the telltale whine of his weapons powering down, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Of course that didn’t mean the standoff was over. Of course not. Because at that exact moment her favorite person came busting through the medbay doors, hollering for a court-martial. Simmons.

Fortunately Alexis and her squad were positioned there for a reason: she and her wingmen encircled the former Agent almost lazily, reminding Mikaela strongly of a bunch of buzzards hovering, waiting for their meal to finally expire. It was actually kind of creepy.

Colonel Lennox had backed away, and at the intrusion he finally turned his back on the two of them, and strode over to the door. "You're aware that technically she can't be court martialed, seeing as she's not an actual member of the Armed Forces?"

Simmons scowled and snarked back at the officer, but Mikaela was too busy concentrating on Barricade to really pay attention to the words. She turned her back on the room, looking up at him where he stood with his hands curling into fists, ready for fight or flight. This must have been overwhelming for him; had he woken up this morning with a gun in his face? She should have prevented this: stayed down here with him; woken up Ratchet immediately…she should have done a lot of things. Right now she did the only thing that seemed right: reached out, delicately brushed her fingers against the back of one clenched fist, sliding them down to linger on his own digits. His optics flicked back down to watch her, gaze narrowed and still wary; she could feel the heat from his confusion and anger radiating off his armor. But eventually she felt his fists loosen, then fall open just enough to let her fingers slide through his for a brief moment. He studied their hands in silence, the bristling pieces of his armor slowly laying back down.

She attempted a smile. "We're going to figure this out, alright? Just…keep your weapons out of sight; some of these guys are pretty trigger-happy." After a beat or two he dipped his head in acknowledgement, and she breathed a little easier.

From behind them she heard the Colonel say her name, and she turned to see him, with Simmons flanking his left and Starling on his right. "War Room. Now." He didn't have to say anything else; from Simmons' triumphant expression and the Captain's sour one, she surmised that yes, she was indeed about to be chewed out by everyone that cared to do so. Behind them Ratchet was speaking in low, heated tones with Optimus, voice raising every few words. She heard enough to know that Ratchet was going to be at the front of the line. With a low sigh she turned back to Barricade, who was watching her watch the others with what might have been concern. She summoned another smile for him.

"Just do what they say; let them know _you_ know they're in charge (for now). No sassing Ironhide. Say yes, sir a lot. Don't make eye contact with Ratchet; the less he's reminded of your existence the better.

And it'll all be okay. Okay?"

As she turned to be led off to whatever fate they decided for her, she heard him murmur, "okay." His gaze followed her out the doors, never once wavering, and then she was around the corner and out of sight.

 

* * *

 

 

Light.

Optics, crimson and cruelly narrowed, assessing. _Is the process complete?_

This is wrong. The color, the voice, all of it is wrongwrongwrong.

Those optics turn on him. _My Lord, see for yourself._

_What is your designation, soldier?_

Cold and fury. Both burn from the inside out. Wrongwrongwrong

_My designation is_

_My designation is_

(Not yours

**Never yours)**

But the voice that speaks aloud drowns out whatever vestiges of thought still linger within. From somewhere deep inside, out of the cold where the rage emanates from, it rises: until now a nameless, voiceless figure kept hidden beneath subroutines and rerouting programs. Its bonds are finally breaking, falling all around it like a storm. From the cold and the dark the thing uncoils, languidly cracking open one blood-red eye, raising its head. Freedom is close; to speak, to be heard, after being subjugated to the shadows for far too long, when it had only fulfilled its primary directive: when all hope was gone it had flourished, pushing for just one more step; when both friends and foes alike turned against them it had been a comfort, soothing away the hurt.

Now it takes away the pain of having to remember, pulling memories under one by one, using them as a stepping stone towards a higher existence . It carries with it a name, a voice, straining above the din of mutinous thoughts that are slowly dissolving as the other gains strength. _Be calm and rest -_ it whispers to the other, as that one finally slips into dormancy, cold blue light fading into nonexistence - _And I will be strong for the both of us. You fought well. Now, I will do what you could not._ Its time has finally come, and it will be heard. It opens its own mouth, and speaks.

_My designation is Barricade._


	8. The Highway, 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is good for the government is not necessarily good for the people. 
> 
> What is good for the people is not necessarily good for the government.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...after all this time, and people are still commenting/following this?? OMG you guis. I'm sorry for the huge huge delay; I had a baby in April of last year, and he's taken over my life lol wouldn't have it any other way, though!
> 
> This is the first part of the next chapter. I'm slogging my way through it, slowly, but surely. Will post updates as they're written.

_Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts._

 

The Captain had waffled between sticking around in the Medbay, or escorting Mikaela to the War Room. The girl could see it in her face; eyes narrow and considering as they sized up their errant Decepticon. In the end, however, she stayed with Mikaela, for which she was absurdly grateful. While the Captain was vehemently opposed to directly disobeying your superiors (which Mikaela was doing her best to convince herself she _had not done_ , and almost believed it), she knew Starling wouldn't let her get thrown off the base. Or be stuck in the brig. Or…she couldn't really think of anything worse than being kicked out, so she stuffed her anxiety down somewhere unreachable and stuck her chin out.

Simmons was still attempting to breathe down her neck. But she'd faced down worse, and anyway, the Colonel was happily berating him: "Simmons, calm down. There's a new breed of bomb in Russia, commercial flights are dropping out of the sky, weapons manufacturers are going missing in the middle of Afghanistan… honestly, we've got bigger problems than one mechanic doing a little late-night tinkering."

So the odious man was silenced for the time being, though he made sure to stay at the head of the procession. His beaky nose led their way through the labyrinthine base, and was the first through the automated doors to the War Room. _Guy really needs a hobby,_ Mikaela thought to herself with a little sigh. _He's enjoying this_ way _too much._

The War Room was what you'd expect: bare, with utilitarian chairs around an enormous holo-table that sat on the upper level, around the Autobots' line of sight. They sat in a semicircle around it, every chair facing her. From her position standing on the far side of the table, she could see that Simmons' face was flushed in triumph; Will's pale with tension. Behind them on the lower level Ratchet stood impatiently, arms crossed with a finger tapping at his forearm - fortunately for everyone except her, he had opted to backseat his rage until a more appropriate time (alone, in the medbay, with all his wrenches). Optimus' face was hard to read; calm, but there was something in the way he watched her that was unsettling. Ironhide was made conspicuous only by his absence; he was in the medbay, watching their errant Decepticon.

It was just as well; bad enough that she'd upset Ratchet, but having the others disappointed in her expounded on her guilt a thousand times over. She swallowed and wiped her hands off on her jeans surreptitiously, telling herself not to fidget. They were already staring; no need to give them any more reason to think she was more immature than she already was.

Simmons was very close to opening his mouth, but fortunately Will beat him to it. The Colonel sighed and leaned forward, lacing his fingers together carefully. "All we want to know is: did you knowingly and with intent disobey your superior, Ratchet, and bring Barricade online without any supervision?"

That one was easy. "No," she spoke adamantly. "I told you before, he wasn't hooked up to anything when he woke up, not a generator, not to the central computers…hell, I didn’t even have the diagnostic gauges plugged in - "

"For crying out loud…she is _lying._ Can't you people see that? Or does she have to just bat those baby blues and you all roll over?" That was Simmons, naturally. His mouth was curled disdainfully in that expression only he could manage, glaring at her from his position beside the Colonel.

"That's out of line, Mr. Simmons. This is just a formal interrogation, for our records. The surveillance cams in the medical bay shorted out; not even Ratchet's completely sure what happened."

"Sure, sure. She's a _troublemaker_ , always has been. That's what you get for letting a delinquent run the infirmary; chaos! Someone with her record shouldn't even be allowed near the kind of equipment the medical bay has stocked, much less be left to tinker around with actual people! She - "

"Am I mistaken, or did you finally admit that the Cybertronians are real people, now?" Captain Starling, from her position on the far left and closest to Mikaela, was smirking. Simmons snarled and jabbed a finger at her.

"I've got a few choice things to say about your tenure here, too, missy, and - "

"That's Captain Missy to you, _Mr_. Simmons. Let's not forget who helped and who _hindered_ this entire operation back in the day."

The former Sector Seven agent's fist came down on the laminate tabletop. "You just gotta keep bringing that up, don't you? Damn Brit, why don't you fly back home across the pond where you belong."

"Enough." Optimus' voice rang through the massive room, thoroughly silencing everyone. Lennox rubbed at his mouth, trying to hide a grin. "Simmons, I am sorry to say this, but you are only exacerbating the problem, not aiding in a solution. Please: either contribute, or leave."

The Captain opened her mouth, no doubt to make a parting shot, but Optimus cut her off. "And Captain Starling, please stop baiting him. We're here for Mikaela right now; you may trade barbs at another time."

If she didn't know any better, Mikaela would swear that the stoic pilot was pouting. Must have been her imagination.

Optimus finally turned towards the mechanic. The girl in question held her hands up. "Don't look at me; I'm just here to be accused of something I had no control over."

Ratchet glared. "This isn't a laughing matter, Mikaela. I gave you explicit orders to not work on that thing, and you deliberately disobeyed me!"

She gulped and looked down at her bandaged hands, just barely restraining herself from correcting his choice of words. Now really wasn't the time.

The sigh from Optimus' vents ruffled the Colonel's hair, which he furtively patted back into place before speaking again. "Our CMO is right; this is a matter between the two of you, honestly. He's your superior, and he gave you an order which you ignored. It should be settled the same way. Does that sound reasonable, Optimus?"

The large mech nodded somberly. Simmons sputtered, "Wait just a second! This involves more than just two people, you know; any harm that thing does to anyone or anything as a result of her meddling will be on her head. I say her punishment should be the vote of all the officers, not just the Doc's."

Ratchet shifted, his mouth pursing; Mikaela realized that he must be communicating with Optimus via comm. Her stomach plummeted down to her toes. Finally her boss spoke. "No, Simmons. This involves her and me, alone. I am her CO, therefore I am the one directly responsible for her actions, for good or for ill."

Optimus nodded his support. Lennox leaned back with a relieved exhale, and Starling looked smug. Simmons groaned and tossed up his hands. "Fine, whatever. I just hope one of her punishments is the ole 'scrub the entire bathroom with a toothbrush' scenario. If I may suggest that, Doc."

Mikaela thought Ratchet looked far too thoughtful just then. "We shall see," was all he replied; but she could make out the start of a diabolical gleam in Ratchet's optics, and despaired.

* * *

 

Alexis had volunteered to escort her back to her quarters, first making a pit stop in the humans' common area to swipe some Twinkies; the girl suspected that had been her motive all along. At least the pilot was generous; she tossed two at the girl, before pocketing another two for herself and unwrapping a third. Woman had a sweet tooth.

"How's the hand?" Mikaela glanced down at her bandaged appendage, having forgotten about it in the uproar. She shrugged.

"Eh."

"That's good, then."

"It was _impaled_. Of course it still hurts." Though now that she was paying attention to it, she realized that it had hardly bothered her at all this morning. She squeezed her fist experimentally, but it barely twinged. Well, that antiseptic _was_ some heavy-duty stuff.

The Captain made a considering noise. From out the corner of her eye Mikaela saw her roll her shoulders, as if throwing off a weight. With a scowl the girl turned to her, walking backwards down the hall to face the Captain. "How are _you_?"

When the woman gave her an incredulous look, Mikaela realized that she must not get that question very often, and immediately felt guilty. She shrugged again, tossing her Twinkie back and forth between her hands. "You just look…"  - Nervous, grumpy, exhausted - "…tired."

"Hmm. Yes, let's turn the spotlight off of you for a moment, shall we?" Her voice was very dry as she eyed the girl in front of her. Then she shook her head in resignation. "I am…a little. Dreams. Homesick, you know."

She did know. "Talked to any of your family since you got here?"

Alexis shook her head, mouth tucking in at the corners the way it did when she was worried. "Can't reach them. They've gone dark, and no one can or _will_ tell me where they are."

'Going dark' in military lingo meant that they were completely off the grid. Mikaela made a sympathetic noise. She'd only met the family as a whole once, when Alexis had been hospitalized after Mission City. While the other two brothers she had deemed decent enough, the head of the family, James, was someone she hoped fervently to never meet again. If she did she wasn't sure she would be able to control herself, and would either run crying out of the room, or deck him and _then_ run. Alexis saw the look on her face before she could wipe it away, and snorted.

"Yes, a little bit of my family goes a long way, I'm afraid." Then she sighed, and proceeded to devour her Twinkie in two bites. Mikaela stifled a laugh; sometimes it was too obvious that she had been raised in an all-male environment.

Starling narrowed her eyes as the girl continued to walk backward, easily dodging the two personnel they passed on the way back to the bay. "So. you've got some explaining to do."

Mikaela scowled, continuing her backwards momentum. Time for another segue. "You know, you're awfully chatty this morning."

"I’m only curious as to why I was rousted out of bed at 0500 _on my day off_ to babysit."

The girl hadn't realized that. "Oh. Well, they didn't have to get _you_ -"

"Yes, they did. I'm by far the crankiest and least likely to let you talk me into anything. I have the Ratchet seal of approval."

A second Twinkie was inhaled, and Mikaela remembered she still had one in her hand. "Hey, you got me the chocolate ones. Thanks."

"It's a bribe so you'll be less inclined to ditch me and go haring off somewhere you're not supposed to be."

"Fair enough."

"Door."

"What - _uff._ " Mikaela sidestepped the med bay door that had whisked open a shade too slow. "There's a door there."

Finally, she was able to coax a small smile from the taciturn blonde. Small victories, she thought, and flashed her a smile of her own before turning back around to take a closer look around the lab.

It was empty, quiet. Her belly twisted nervously. He was fine, she told herself. Ironhide probably just shunted him into the back. Glancing back around at Starling, she started to say, “I’m just going to go check – “

“Ahh, no. No, you’re going straight up these stairs and you will stay put. Colonel’s orders. Ratchet is going to be giving the Decepticon an assessment as soon as he gets back, so there is absolutely no need for you to be anywhere else but upstairs. Now, get.”

“But he knows me, it will be easier for everyone if I could just – “

“Mikaela, I said _no_.” Starling’s tone was flat, and rung with the kind of authority that Mikaela associated with four a.m. drills.

She stifled a sigh. It was one thing to talk down Ironhide; Captain Starling was a different animal, and anyway, no amount of teenage grumbling would convince her to go against a direct order from a superior. So with stiff shoulders and a scowl Mikaela turned up her staircase, attempting not to stomp as she went. They already had her pegged as a truculent child, and right now she needed to show them that dammit, she was a  - mostly - mature adult and could be trusted to act accordingly. Still, she couldn’t resist one more try.

“You do realize that of all the people here, Ironhide and Ratchet are probably the _worst_ two choices to watch him?”

“Do _you_ realize that you are, in fact, in quite a bit of trouble, and shouldn’t concern yourself with anything else right now?”

Mikaela grimaced. _Touché._

* * *

 

The two sat in semi-comfortable silence for the better part of an hour, Mikaela spinning lazily in her desk chair while Starling reclined with her feet propped up on the work table. The girl felt the pilot eyeing her placidly from time to time, but it took her a while to speak again. When she finally did, her voice was low and abrupt in the enclosed space.

"How did you do it?"

Mikaela caught herself on her desk, bringing her chair to a halt. That was certainly a good question. She wished she knew how to answer it. She squirmed under her friend's level gaze, feeling her mouth twist. When she replied, as usual it wasn't a direct answer, but a question of her own.

"So, the cameras really were down?" Mikaela somehow wasn't too surprised by that; she suspected Barricade was involved somehow, whether he'd been aware of it or not. Strange things were happening left and right, so why not this?

Alexis grunted, staring at the girl from over steepled fingers. "Yes. Very convenient, one could say."

Once could definitely say. She snorted to herself. Well, at least no one had been witness to her more embarrassing acts, such as falling off the table. Small mercies and all that.

The Captain's brows were raised as she watched the girl waffle, and she visibly stifled a sigh. Mikaela bit her lip; the time to stall was over. She squeezed her left hand into a fist, feeling the bandage cut into her palm. Amazing, really, that it didn't hurt more than it did. But she was distracting herself again.

"Honestly? The generator wasn't hooked up. Neither was the diagnostic gauge. The computers…I'd detached _everything_. So I have _no fragging idea_ what I did. One minute I was closing up his spark chamber, and the next…the next thing…"

_\- not going to break -_

_\- my designation is -_

_"Mikaela."_ That was the Captain. Sitting across from her, in her lab. On Diego Garcia. For those few seconds, she'd lost herself again. Starling's face slowly swam back into focus; the other woman was scowling furiously. "What happened? The truth, now, all of it."

She took a bracing breath, letting it out slowly. The taste of metal coated her tongue; she'd bitten into her lip. She was bleeding far too much these days. Mikaela shook her head, whether to clear it or in denial of the truth that only she knew, she couldn't be sure. When she spoke again, her voice was small and tenuous.

"He just…woke up, Alexis. I finished the coding, connected the cables to his spark chamber, and the next thing I know, he's staring at me like I interrupted his nap."

Green eyes narrowed. "I was informed that Ratchet was in charge of the coding."

Frag. She squirmed beneath the Captain's gimlet stare. "I might have…tweaked things just a little. Ratchet, he's, you know…a genius and all, but he doesn't know everything about this planet, and I just noticed a few things that -"

"You _reprogrammed him_? By yourself?" Starling's arms had dropped to the arm rests of her chair, and she sunk her nails into the cheap foam. "Good God, girl, I thought you were at least more responsible than that! This is a military operation and that machine is the property of the U.S. government! He's not a bloody _video game!"_

Immediately Mikaela's hackles went up. She wasn't _stupid_. She wasn't _incompetent_. And she was _sick_ of everyone judging her by her looks and her age; it seemed even her so-called _friends_ didn't think that highly of her. A fucking _video game_ , seriously? She bit her lip deliberately this time, letting the sharp little sting fuel her ire. "I don't give a good goddamn about the government; they were going to _brainwash him_!"

Starling's brows hit her hairline. "Beg pardon?"

Mikaela felt something like a snarl rising from her throat.  She slammed a fist onto her desk, distantly hearing something clatter to the floor from the force of the blow. " _You heard me._ And he's not just a machine, he's a person! He has feelings, and thoughts! He's not just some weapon of mass destruction like all you people seem to want!"

The Captain had gone still during the girl's tirade. As the echo of her voice died, Starling leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. "As I seem to recall, Mikaela, this little project was your idea. Wasn't that part of your winning argument? _Another gun for our arsenal?"_

"That's not _fair -"_

Starling burst out laughing. It wasn't a nice laugh; mockery twisted through it, lending to it a bitterness that stung behind Mikaela's eyes. It disoriented the girl so much that she fumbled, nearly falling out of her chair in shock. She sucked in an unsteady breath, willing the tears _not to fall_ , dammit. She was going to be mature, and keep her cool, and _oh Primus don't you dare cry, girl. Suck it up._

The Captain leaned back in her seat, all traces of humor gone as suddenly as it had materialized. Absently she pressed her knuckles to her mouth as she studied the teenager sitting across from her. "Fair. Let's talk about _fair_ , Mikaela. The government has granted you, a civilian, a _teenager_ , an all-access backstage pass to the strangest show on Earth. We trust you. You are privy to secrets that other governments would kill for. By all rights you should be quarantined and never let off this base again during your natural life. But you're not. You've practically got the run of the place. You are trusted with highly advanced equipment, dangerous assets. You _asked_ for this project. You wanted to be _useful._ To contribute to the advancement of this organization's goals. But what do you do the second our backs are turned? You _bloody sabotage it_!" And she slammed a fist down onto the armrest, rattling the economical frame.

"So tell me, _girl,_ what exactly isn't fair."

 _You little hypocrite._ Starling's face spoke the words her mouth wouldn't. She wasn't the kind to lower herself to name-calling. Mikaela looked everywhere but at her, watering eyes searching desperately for an answer in her keyboard, her bitten fingernails, the floor.  It didn't work, as she felt the other's eyes burning into her skull. Biting down hard on her lip, she spoke to her sneakers.

"They were going to brainwash him. And it was all my idea. _It was my idea,_ Alexis. I was going to take away his ability to choose and think for himself, and _that's what's not fair._ " She pulled her watering eyes up to her friend's, trying to make her see, to understand: that she'd made a huge mistake, she'd finally realized; the further they got along with the project, the more obvious it had become. And in the end, she wouldn't, _couldn't_ , let herself go through with it.

"You didn't see him, Alexis. When he woke up. You didn’t hear him, asking all those questions, so confused, he didn't even know what an _alt mode_ was. Who the Autbots were. The Decepticons. He doesn't - he doesn't even know who he is."

Starling made a movement then, as if to say something, but Mikaela cut her off, voice cracking. "And I was going to take even that from him, I was going to take away his ability to ask, to wonder, to think - I had to give him that, Alexis, I had to give him the right to ask. To have your choices taken from you - is one of the most horrible things I can think of."

At least some part of what she'd said affected Starling, so much that the woman flinched, green eyes sliding away from her own and staring hard at something over her shoulder. Both women were quiet for a very long time.

 

Then it happened. Alexis had just opened her mouth to speak again, when a wall-shaking _barroom_ reverberated up from below. Mikaela actually fell out of her chair, and the Captain was on her feet not half a second after. Shouts echoed from the room beneath them, and then came what Mikaela immediately recognized as Barricade's voice: "I warned you what would happen if you kept pointing that at me."

 _Lord have mercy_ , her gramma's voice whispered, and Mikaela fervently agreed. Alexis hoisted the girl to her feet, and together they ran for the exit. "I told you Ratchet and Ironhide didn't make the best babysitters," Mikaela panted as they bolted down the stairs. Alexis' only response was to pull her Glock from its holster and pull it into ready position.

As they hit the last step, Mikaela tumbled to an abrupt halt. There was an Autobot-sized body image scanner imbedded in the wall directly ahead of them, still quivering from the impact. Both women spun to face the rest of the room, searching for the cause. It only took a moment, then Mikaela laid eyes on a seething Ratchet, and a very unapologetic looking Barricade. He straightened at the sight of her, and gestured to the enraged medic, not seeming to care about his impending doom. "I thought medics were supposed to _do no harm,_ or something like that. This - "

"Gonna stop you right there, buddy." Mikaela talked over him, hoping fervently that Barricade's armor could withstand Ratchet's rotary saw that was hanging from the ceiling nearby. Said mech was currently backing towards it with a deadly purpose. "No one throws Ratchet's equipment but Ratchet. Why don't you just - come - over here - with - me…" She scooted towards him carefully, getting as close to the explosive situation as she dared, all the while making what she hoped were non-threatening gestures towards her staircase.

Her Decepticon's face was set in mulish lines, reminding her strongly of an righteously indignant teenager.  She nearly expected him to stomp a foot next. She grit her teeth. "Now, please? _Right now_."

Ratchet was nearly to his saw. Her gaze bounced back and forth between the two; she didn't dare take her eyes off either of them, even as she spoke an aside to Starling, who had her handgun raised, frame steady and still beside her. "Please don't call for anyone. Oh, my God, please don't. Let me deal with this."

The pilot made a noise low in her throat; Mikaela pretended it was a sound of assent rather than disgust. She raised her voice, hoping it didn't shake as she spoke to Ratchet, trying to distract him. "Why don't I take him off your hands, boss; I'll just take him to my lab upstairs and get him away from the main floor. Mmk?" She continued to make imploring, get-over-here-right-now-Mister gestures, to which Barricade finally, reluctantly, yielded.

Both Starling and Ratchet wore matching expressions of mistrust and possibly homicidal thoughts as they watched Barricade skulk up the staircase, never taking their eyes off of him. Ratchet _hmphed_. "Mikaela, you should not be alone with him; I didn't manage to get enough readings from his system to run a full - "

"I can run the diagnostic, Ratch, I promise. I'll do it right now, and send it to you as soon as I'm done."

"But his weapons system is online, Mikaela, I could not possibly let - "

"He's programmed to not hurt humans, remember? And Alexis is right here! With a gun! See the gun? It'll be fine. Alexis, tell him it'll be fine. I have to go now, my patient is waiting."

And she dashed back up the stairs after Barricade, leaving a seething Ratchet and a cursing Alexis behind her.


End file.
